These Four Walls
by geraldine01
Summary: Johnny returns home after five years, bringing secrets with him. His family welcomes him, and although they have troubles of their own, they try to discover what he is hiding from them. This is a story about family, and features Johnny and Scott Lancer, Murdoch, and Val and Theresa. 19 chapters. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Fandom: Lancer**  
Rating: PG  
Genre: family, brothers, angst, h/c  
written: April 2008, 66,900 words, 19 chapters

**A/N** I wrote this, and the other Lancer stories I will add to this site, a few years ago. I haven't looked them over too carefully because I'm afraid I'll start re-writing them. I'd love to hear your comments!

Synopsis: _Johnny returns home to find things changed, and his family, in return, tries to discover what he is hiding from them._

**THESE FOUR WALLS by Geraldine**

CHAPTER 1 - COMING HOME

Natural affection is a prejudice: for though we have cause to love our nearest and connections better than others, we have no reason to think them better than others.  
~ William Hazlitt 1839

"Rider comin'," called out one of the hands.

Scott hesitated, one foot inside the front door of the Lancer hacienda, and watched the horseman approaching. He had a great deal to do before the sun set and he didn't want to be distracted by some neighbor come to visit. Long gone was the patience it required to make small talk, but something made Scott turn around to have another look at the man.

The rider was still beyond the gate, but approaching at a steady pace on a large black horse, almost obscured by the dusty cloud swirling around him. Scott could see the coattails of the man's pale overcoat flapping out behind him like wings, but didn't recognize the rider. He took another step forward and shielded his eyes from the late-day sun, his heart skipping a beat when he realized the rider was Johnny. He has come home, Scott thought. He said he would come and finally he has!

With a yell back in the direction of the house to alert Murdoch about the new arrival, Scott strode out to meet his brother.

Johnny reined in his rangy black gelding and jumped off almost before the animal came to a halt. Another second and he was hugging his blond brother in greeting, clapping him on the back, unwilling to let him go. "Scott!"

"Johnny, you came after all!"

"I said I would."

"How was the journey?"

"Fine, fine."

After they finished greeting each other, Scott held his brother at arm's length to look him over. Despite being half covered with dirt from the road, Johnny's appearance spoke loudly of a man of means. Under his canvas duster, his dark suit was well tailored with perfectly fitted trousers. The top button of Johnny's long suit jacket was undone and a burgundy silk waistcoat could be seen. His white shirt was of fine white linen with a starched collar, and devoid of any embroidery as far as Scott could tell. A heavy silk cravat was secured with what appeared to be a diamond stickpin and he wore a heavy gold ring on his left hand - his wedding ring. The boots were hand-stitched by a skilled boot maker yet the spurs were subdued - for Johnny. And on his head was a new-looking Stetson, black.

There were two large valises tied to the back of the saddle and Scott wondered how long his brother intended to stay. After removing the luggage, one of the ranch hands took possession of the prancing horse and led him to the corral, having trouble keeping the lively animal under control.

Tapping Johnny on the stomach with the back of his hand, Scott feigned a dubious look. "Have you put on some weight, Johnny?" Despite his comment, Scott thought his brother looked healthy and tanned, and apparently fully recovered from the bout of influenza that had caused him to postpone his visit back at Christmastime.

Johnny retorted by slapping Scott hard on the stomach. "Well, you haven't changed much. You're still the same scrawny fellow I used to know," he said with a smile.

When Scott embraced his brother again, this time roughly, he noticed there was something concealed under the left side of Johnny's coat, over his ribs. "And what's this? Your wallet?"

Johnny elbowed him aside and grinned, crow's feet appearing at the corners of his eyes. "I'll show you later." He kidded, "You know, you're lookin' pretty good for an old man."

Even as he spoke, Johnny noted the things that had changed about Scott since he'd last seen him. His brother still wore the same kind of tan shirt and trousers he had favored ever since he'd shucked his citified Boston clothes some years back, but they were far from new and hung on his frame as if he'd recently lost weight. Scott's hair, overlong, had a few lighter streaks in it, and not entirely from the sun. His face was tanned and worn from years of exposure to the elements, with pronounced lines at the corners of his eyes and some new ones near his mouth and down his cheeks. Scott looked like what he was - a middle-aged rancher.

Scott saw his brother's inspection, so in return he pointed to his brother's upper lip. The biggest difference in Johnny's appearance, apart from his mode of dress, was the addition of a large mustache. "What on earth is that?"

Swatting the hand away, Johnny said defensively, "It's called a mustache. You don't like it? Then you should have seen the beard I had." He threw an arm around Scott's shoulder and said, "I just shaved it off a couple of days ago. Didn't want to be mistaken for a tramp and get shot." He looked towards the house and his face lit up. "Hey, Murdoch!"

When Murdoch stepped out onto the verandah with open arms, Johnny let go of his brother to rush over to him. He didn't hesitate to allow the old man's arms to enfold him in a welcoming hold. It was several moments before Murdoch released his younger son. "Good to see you, son."

Johnny had a hard time speaking, but got out, "Likewise." He gave an uneven laugh, then asked, "So do we stay out here in the sun or are you gonna let me in the house?"

With arms around each other, father and son ambled into the hacienda. Scott followed, only a few feet behind, and as he stepped over the threshold he suddenly realized with a shock that there was something missing from his brother's fancy outfit: Johnny was not wearing his gun belt.

It hadn't escaped Johnny's notice that his father was walking with a pronounced limp, nor that Scott was watching the old man like a hawk. Once Murdoch had carefully lowered his large frame into his favorite comfortable chair, Scott looked relieved. Johnny spotted a cane tucked just behind Murdoch's chair, and he knew that pride had made his father greet him without the support he apparently required.

Johnny looked around, seeing the great room with fresh eyes. Nothing much had changed. Every piece of furniture and knickknack was in exactly the same place as he remembered from his last trip. That had been about a year earlier, to his chagrin. But the drapes and carpets looked worn and in need of cleaning and there were holes in a couple of the arms on the upholstered chairs. In general the whole place seemed tired. He'd never really noticed how worn out the old homestead looked before.

Soon enough the three men were seated near the fire, each with a glass of scotch in hand. Johnny held up his tumbler and asked, "Is this from one of the bottles I sent to you to sample?"

"We've had the case stored away," Murdoch said, "and were waiting to see if you were following it, Johnny, before opening any of the bottles. Its flavor reminds me of Scotland."

"How's Barranca?" Johnny asked.

Scott replied, "He's in fine shape, though just now he's over in the north pasture because of a bruised hoof. You should be able to ride him in a day or two."

Murdoch reached over and patted Johnny on the knee, beaming with pleasure at having both of his sons together at Lancer again. "Are you tired from your trip? You'll be staying for a couple of weeks as you said?"

Johnny took a second to reply. "No, I'm not tired. I took the train in from San Francisco. Hey, I bought a horse at an auction over at Merced yesterday. Did you see him? I thought buying a horse made more sense than hiring some crowbait."

Scott asked, "You went to the auction over at Merced?" He turned to look at their father and said to him with mock disbelief, "It appears that Johnny has found himself a head for business. Finally."

Murdoch laughed and Johnny joined in. He agreed, "All right, you two were right to make me do that endless book-keeping. It sunk in, but I don't have to like it. I have a bookkeeper these days, and a secretary, Mr. French, who I left in charge of the office. I'm not afraid to admit I have my limits."

Murdoch's expression grew solemn. "We're sorry that Natalie couldn't come-."

"No, no," Johnny was quick to respond, cutting his father off. "She still hasn't overcome the influenza." He looked into his tumbler of scotch for a moment then took a deep drink.

Scott's face was set. "Like I wrote to you, we had a terrible outbreak of influenza down here. It seems we've had it run through every winter for the past several years. But you're well now, Johnny?"

"Yeah, I got over it faster than most. Took more out of me than some of those bullet wounds I've had, though." Without meaning to, his hand dropped to his right hip, and he saw Scott took notice. Johnny turned to his father. "But you, Murdoch, I heard that came down with it, too? You seem pretty hearty."

"Oh, I'm fine. A little influenza can't keep me down." Murdoch's face fell and he started to say something but halted and ran his hand over his jaw.

Scott looked at his father with concern. "We lost some good people," Scott said somberly. Murdoch merely nodded, so Scott looked at his younger brother and said simply, "Isidro. Manuel and two of his children. Maria's granddaughter. Jelly-." He swallowed and looked away, then stood abruptly. "Let me top off your drink, Johnny,"

Looking up at his brother in sympathy, Johnny handed him his half-empty tumbler. "I wish I'd been able to come to the funerals. But Natalie was ill, and I. . . I'm real sorry."

Murdoch answered for both of them. "Oh no, son. You couldn't be expected to travel at a time like that. Half the county took sick at the same time and it ran through here like wildfire. Sam near worked himself to death but he never failed his patients." Murdoch motioned over his shoulder towards Scott. "Your brother was instrumental in hiring nurses in the area several months ago, and I know their presence saved many lives that would have been lost otherwise." He beamed with pride in his elder son.

"Sam?" Johnny looked inquiringly in Scott's direction. "He survived it all, did he?"

Murdoch replied, "Nothing can keep Sam down."

From over at the drinks cabinet, Scott called, "He has two assistant doctors now and a company of nurses but he still tools around the county in that rickety buggy of his as if he's the only one who can save anyone-." Scott abruptly put the bottle he was holding down on the silver tray with a crash. "Excuse me for a moment," he mumbled, then left the room by the side door.

For several moments there was no noise except the ticking of the grandfather clock, then Murdoch said quietly, "I think Jelly's dying hit him the hardest. Everyone seemed to have recovered, then Jelly came down with it last of all, and within a couple of days he was gone. Just gone," he whispered in disbelief, his eyes looking off at something in the past.

Johnny swallowed hard. "We'll all miss him." He had felt a deep loss at hearing about the passing of the old wrangler who had become a family member. Johnny had endured his own version of grief when he'd heard the sad news and he didn't want to revisit it again.

Murdoch sighed and looked Johnny in the eye. "Scott hasn't been the same since Jenny died a year and a half ago. Oh, he covers it up well, but he works himself too hard. I think sometimes he doesn't want to come home at night." Then Murdoch added, "But he always does."

Unsure of how to reply, Johnny said, "He looks a bit tired, but you have plenty of hired hands. Let them take on some of the workload." On his previous visit, and when Scott had come up to spend a couple of weeks with him in San Francisco, Johnny had seen some melancholy in his brother, but he put it down to Scott being recently widowed. He'd have thought that Scott would have come out of his mourning by now. "I guess I haven't seen him much in the past couple of years," Johnny admitted. In his own defense, he added, "My business keeps me busy, and I travel some."

Murdoch smiled at him fondly. "You've become quite a success."

Scott reappeared as if he hadn't rushed out so hastily, and brought over Johnny's refreshed drink. "You said in your last letter that you're going down to Louisiana?"

"I'm opening an office down in New Orleans. It's a good hub for importing," Johnny explained.

"I find it hard to believe," said Scott as he took his seat next to his brother on the couch, "that there is so much money to be made over alcohol and tobacco, especially after the import taxes."

"Well, Scott, my imported Scotch whiskey and cigars are the finest a gentleman can buy. It seems that a select few will pay an awful lot for the right cigar." Johnny pulled a couple of cigars out of his breast pocket and handed one to each of the men.

Scott looked at the paper label and immediately laughed. "Corona de Madrid, is it? Are these the cigars you have wrapped yourself?"

"Yup. Next batch I'll name after you, Scott. Maybe call it the Boston Corona?" Johnny launched into a description of the cigar-making process and how his company had started producing a special blend of tobacco. "We wrap the island tobacco in Connecticut leaves and avoid a lot of the taxation."

All the time Johnny spoke, Murdoch watched his younger son and enjoyed seeing his open enthusiasm. He never would have expected Johnny to go into such a business, nor to thrive along with it, but it was obvious he had done well for himself in the five years since he'd left Lancer.

Murdoch only wished Johnny and his wife, Natalie, could come back to Lancer more often. He had made the trip up to Frisco to see the couple's home a couple of times, but travel was becoming harder for him with each passing year. That Johnny had pursued the daughter of Warburton had not pleased Murdoch at the time, but when the couple announced their plans to marry, he found he liked the girl and could honestly wish them joy. They were married five years ago, around the same time that Scott and Jenny were wed. Right after the ceremony Johnny and his new wife had left Lancer to live near San Francisco. Murdoch was aware that it was through Natalie's encouragement that his son had tried and succeeded at being a businessman. He smiled at the change she had wrought in Johnny, but felt a twinge of sorrow that the couple had never had any children. There was still time, he thought.

Murdoch and Scott had initially promised to visit Johnny and his wife often, despite the difficulty they had in finding time away from ranching duties. But even so, events seemed to have conspired against them. The influenza outbreak had prevented travel the past winter, it was true, but Johnny's trips back home to Lancer had become more infrequent with every passing year.

Johnny and Scott were busy talking, but eventually Murdoch rose and suggested they rustle up some supper. "I'll check and see if it's ready, but Maria's pace has slowed considerably, so the meal may be a bit late."

Scott said he would settle Johnny in, so they retrieved his valises and climbed the big front staircase, usually reserved for guests, up to his room. "We didn't know when you were coming, or for how long exactly, but it's all yours, brother." He held the door to Johnny's old bedroom open and waited for him to pass by. "Nothing has changed," Scott said.

Johnny slowly walked around what had been his room, touching some of the items on the bureau: a book, a bronze figurine of a horse, a cut glass decanter of liquor and two matching glasses. A sniff of a decanter's stopper revealed an inferior whiskey. Johnny opened a drawer of the bureau and found some folded clothes, new ones he'd never worn for some reason. His favorites were long gone, too old and faded to take with him into his married life. There were a couple of colorful shirts that, when he picked them up for assessment, appeared to be too small for his mature frame. The pants, in dark canvas, might fit, he thought as he held them out. "The only thing that's changed around here is the size of my waist," he said ruefully. "You know, Scott, I was thinking that maybe the old man should put some money into improving the house, like getting indoor plumbing." When Scott didn't reply, he turned and was faced with an angry look from his brother. Johnny asked, "What's the matter?"

"What do you think's the matter, Johnny?" Scott closed the door behind himself. His words were terse but quiet, apparently concerned that Murdoch would hear. "Your father is getting older by the day and you can't even come out here once a year for a visit. And the few times you've graced us with your presence, you always cut your visit short-."

Bristling at the attack, Johnny retorted in the same low, heated tone, "I told you why I couldn't come! You wanted me to bring more sickness down on this ranch, is that it?"

Scott snapped, "I'm not talking about your absence at Christmas. Look, I know you don't want to come back here, Johnny, but have you ever stopped to think that Murdoch needs to see you sometimes, and that you should remember where you came from? If he hadn't given you the initial investment money, you'd never have even been able to get your business off the ground. You just took his offering and ran."

Johnny stared at his brother and wondered where this was all coming from. Of course he was grateful to his father for the seed money, but he'd already repaid the loan, even though Murdoch had called it a wedding gift. "I could have made it on my own. It just might have taken a little longer." Suddenly he lost temper and raised his voice. "Where the hell do you get off lecturing me or even knowing what I think?"

"I have every right to lecture you, Johnny, because I'm the one who was left with the job of holding this ranch together!"

***–***TBC


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2 - THE SALES PITCH

Good clothes open all doors.  
~ Thomas Fuller, M. D. 1732

Johnny stepped back and looked at Scott as if seeing him for the first time. "Oh. . . Oh, I get it." He let a breath out in a huff. "You're steaming because it's me out there earning a good living, doing what I want, and not you. This is because I got out of here." He stabbed Scott's chest with a finger. "You can't stand it that I've done well for myself. That I don't have to follow the old man's orders any more. That I have a big house I can call my own and a beautiful wife-."

Scott froze, his expression a mixture of hurt and deep regret. Johnny realized that Murdoch was right; Scott still wasn't over losing his wife, even after a year and a half. Immediately remorseful, Johnny took hold of his brother's arm. "Scott, I'm sorry, so sorry." Scott tried to shake him off, but Johnny refused to let go. "Don't. . .don't look at me like that. Come on, sit down. Sit."

At first he didn't think Scott would heed him, but he finally sat stiffly on the edge of the bed. Johnny perched next to him, sideways so he could see his brother's downcast face and asked cajolingly, "Tell me, what's the real problem? You don't want to be in control of this whole ranch? That's not what you told me just before I left."

Scott took a moment to reply, and even then it seemed that every word had to fight its way out of his mouth. "I didn't say I wanted total control. I said I wanted to work this ranch the way I saw fit without you fighting me and Murdoch every step of the way."

"What's the difference?" Johnny was annoyed. It wasn't true that he had fought Scott on every point. They simply never saw things the same way when it came to running the ranch, or not until they'd had a heated discussion over it. Then one of them tended to give way reluctantly. The disagreements became a ritual of sorts, it seemed, but in the end they always managed to find some common ground and worked together. "You're in command now, aren't you?"

"Johnny, I'm not in command of anything. Murdoch won't let go. When you left, Murdoch and I were going to be a team and make decisions together, but he runs this ranch just the same way he did forty years ago and gives me no leeway at all." Scott shook his head, giving up. "You don't understand."

Johnny rose to stand before his brother. "I don't understand? Don't pull that one on me, brother. I'm not some dumbass with no business sense. I've proved you wrong on that head, or maybe that's what's eatin' you?"

Scott stared at him for a moment. "Why are you itching for a fight all of a sudden?" He took a deep breath and said wearily, "I've always been the first one to say how proud I am of you. We're all proud of your success."

Johnny brushed his fingers over his mustache, unbuttoned his suit jacket then positioned his hands on his hips. He didn't want to quarrel with Scott, but it seemed there were some things they had better hash out before they festered, or else this was going to be one hell of a visit. He slowed his breathing and forced himself to calm down.

Scott crossed his arms and eyed his brother, waiting.

When Johnny felt more in control he said, "Back then I just wanted to prove that I could accomplish something on my own. I wanted to be better than I used to be. I was trying hard to shuck myself of that damned reputation that followed me here. Living at Lancer, it seemed to be impossible."

"So you just took off," Scott accused sardonically.

Johnny had trouble remaining composed but he was determined to explain himself to Scott. "When I got married and started out afresh, my aim was not to turn my back on you, or on Lancer. You gotta understand, I needed to be more than just the second son." He'd never said that aloud before, but it was true. He'd always believed that no matter how much room he was given to grow at Lancer, nothing he accomplished would ever be truly his. "Scott, I needed to do something on my own."

"You could have remained closer to home," Scott said stubbornly.

"I had to make a clean break. Look, you were newly married, too, and I figured you'd be fine running the ranch, raising your family here. . . ." Johnny halted. Someone was calling from downstairs that supper was ready. "Who's that?"

Scott looked up disinterestedly. "One of Maria's helpers. I arranged for some girls to aid her in the kitchen, even if she resents it. If she did the cooking alone, we'd all starve."

Johnny almost commented that Scott looked like he had been starved, but he refrained. "I know how hard the old man is, you know I do, but you're an equal partner with him now, Scott."

"He doesn't treat me like one," Scott said. "As soon as you left, Murdoch started to pull rank on me. We always got along before, but no matter what I did, he over-ruled it. At first I bargained with him, quarreled, tried to get my point across. But he always had his mind set and it was like pushing against a brick wall. It's hard because I know he cares about me. In fact we get along fine so long as we're not talking business. I'm not going to fight with him on every issue any more, Johnny."

"That's what it's come to?" He had always figured that their father had quarreled with him instead of Scott because Murdoch had found his older son closer in personality to himself. Johnny laughed a little. "And I always thought it was just me." He placed a hand on Scott's shoulder. "This isn't like you, Scott, You may not be a scrapper but you don't take guff from anyone."

Scott shrugged. "I guess I'm just tired."

Johnny could see that his brother needed some serious cheering up. "I tell you what. Tomorrow we go into town and buy me some new duds, then we go to that new gambling hall I saw on my way through Green River. Drop in on Val and the wife for a meal." He hit Scott lightly on the arm with his fist. "Is Baldomero still selling hats?"

A small smile crept over Scott's face, but when he looked up at Johnny standing in front of him, his expression changed to puzzlement. "Now what is this?" He pointed to a leather strap that ran diagonally across Johnny's chest. It hadn't been visible when his coat had been buttoned.

Johnny grinned and lifted the suit jacket's left breast to expose a leather shoulder holster secured under his arm. He patted it with his gun hand. "My gun belt is no more. This took some getting used to but it's real comfortable."

Scott's brow furrowed as he inspected the rig. Johnny's Colt was in what appeared to be a regular holster, but the leather flap behind it was larger than on a gun belt so it could lie comfortably against his ribs.

"The flap is big so it doesn't rub," Johnny explained. "At first I couldn't draw real fast, but I canted the holster forward and it works fine now." He had initially thought he would never get used to the shoulder holster, but after a great many practice sessions, it began to feel a bit more natural to him. So far, he hadn't been in any situations where he had mistakenly grabbed at the non-existent gun on his hip instead of reaching for the one under his arm.

"You carry a concealed weapon? Like a gambler?" Scott found something distasteful about walking around with the appearance of being unarmed, only to have a six-shooter strapped out of sight under a coat.

"You say that like there's something wrong with wearing it, brother. You can't carry a six-gun openly in the city." Johnny pulled his jacket back to show Scott how it the soft leather holster strap went over his shoulder and was secured by another that wrapped around his chest. "Doesn't get in the way when I'm riding, either."

Scott rose and snorted in disbelief. "I know you. You didn't just choose to follow the law, Johnny, even if you are a big city boy now. You'd never give up the old gun belt without a good reason-." He hit Johnny's right hip hard with the side of his hand, in the place where his Colt would have sat if he'd been wearing his usual rig.

Johnny flinched and staggered back a couple of feet. He bent sideways, his features screwed up in pain. "Auuugh! What d'ya do that for?"

"I'm sorry, Johnny! I didn't mean to hurt you," Scott exclaimed, his eyes wide. He had no idea that his playful hit was going to cause such a reaction. Despite himself, he let out a small laugh at the sight of his brother hopping about. Johnny seemed to be over-reacting. "I really didn't mean it. Is your hip injured? Let me see it."

"Well, I'm injured now!" After only a slight hesitation, Johnny launched himself at his brother, driving him back onto the bed as he got in a couple of well-placed punches. They struggled and wrestled, hitting each other in a brotherly way, grunting and tumbling around on the bed, nearly knocking over a lamp on the bedside table.

Neither one heard the door open, but when Murdoch's booming voice bellowed at them to stop, they heard that and stopped their roughhousing.

"If you two can stop causing a ruckus long enough, you might hear the dinner bell," Murdoch said gruffly, then turned on his heel. He was only a couple of feet down the hall when the sound of his sons laughing came to him. Murdoch progressed down the stairs with a smile on his face. Yes, he thought, they'll sort it out and everything will be fine.

The brothers stood on the verandah the next morning after breakfast. Although Scott protested that he had too much work to do, Johnny tried to convince him to ride along with him to Morro Coyo and then on to Green River.

Despite the pain Scott's casual blow had caused him on the previous day, Johnny exhibited no sign of anything amiss. Scott motioned vaguely towards Johnny's hip. "Are you going to be able to ride?"

Johnny made a noncommittal gesture. "Nothing to worry about. Murdoch says you can come with me. C'mon, Scott, you can play hooky. I need some ranching clothes if I'm going to help you out." He held out his arms and looked down at his fancy clothing. "I mean, I can't wrassle cattle in my good duds."

Scott surveyed his brother's clothes and agreed they were more suited to the city than to the ranch. He said caustically, "We'll have a stampede if the cattle catch sight of you in that getup." Johnny was wearing dark gray pants that fit him like a glove, yet another white shirt, and a fancy cravat. His frock coat was far too elegant for anything but a night out at the theater, and there were none of those to be had for over fifty miles in any direction. Scott asked, "What's wrong with your clothing up in your drawers?"

Johnny looked at him sideways and laughed. "I don't think so."

"They're not good enough?"

Seeing that Scott was serious, Johnny admitted, "Well, I tried on a shirt but the buttons sorta busted." He leaned close to Scott and said, "Too much good living." He patted his stomach.

"All right, all right. But this means you're going to be wearing off some of that fat with some hard work, brother, once we get back. I need every man I can get to just keep apace with the work around here."

He headed for the corral, leaving Johnny standing there, asking nobody in particular, "Fat? You're calling me fat?" He looked down at his belly. It wasn't as flat as it used to be, but nobody could call him fat and get away with it. Nobody.

They rode along at a good pace, as if Scott was in a hurry to get the trip over with. Even so, Johnny enjoyed the scenery. It was good to be back, to be among familiar places and things.

Eventually Scott slowed the pace of his horse, Victory, so he could converse more easily with his brother. He eyed the big horse Johnny was mounted upon. The big black shied at a small animal crossing the road, and although Johnny retained control over the horse, he was quite a handful. Scott thought he needed some training. The horse had a fine head and excellent proportions; he wasn't a working horse, that was for sure. "What made you buy that animal? He's a bit showy, even for you."

"Impulse, really." Johnny slapped the handsome black's neck. "He needs some work, but he's got promise. Lots of spirit. I was real sorry I didn't take Barranca with me when we moved to the city, but he wouldn't have fit in." Natalie had convinced him that it was more appropriate for them to drive a carriage in the city. At the time he'd believed he would fetch his palomino from Lancer at some point, but it just never came about.

The previous evening Johnny had enjoyed a fine reunion with Barranca out in the pasture. Cipriano had come out to talk to Johnny for a while, and they had discussed the horse's care. Johnny had wanted, very badly, to ride his palomino, but Barranca's rear hoof was still tender.

Instead, once Cipriano had left, he'd talked to the horse for a while, running his hands over the animal's shoulders and back. Johnny had always talked to his horses like the friends they were, but he hadn't established a close relationship with his new black yet. Barranca had nuzzled him in response and sought out the apple he knew must be in Johnny's pocket. As Johnny had sliced the apple and fed the pieces to the palomino, he told him what he'd been up to and, as always, he was glad that horses weren't judgmental.

As they rode along, Johnny asked Scott, "Barranca is happiest at Lancer, don't you think?"

"He's been fine," Scott assured his brother. "I ride him sometimes. Does this one have a name?"

"He's called Santiago." Johnny pulled a cigar out of his pocket and smiled. "Same as this. One of the smoothest cigars ever made."

Mr. Baldomero's store in Morro Coyo was stuffed to the gills with every household item imaginable. So stuffed that at first the Lancer brothers had a hard time finding the proprietor. Baldomero came out from behind his counter, greeted Johnny effusively and wanted to know everything that he had been up to since he'd last been to Morro Coyo, so it was some time before the pursuit of a new outfit began.

The shopkeeper admired Johnny's dark suit, but tutted at the dust that had settled upon it during the ride into town. Scott rolled his eyes and made for a table covered in men's shirts. Another customer came in and needed attention, so Mr. Baldomero reluctantly left Johnny to make his own choices.

Scott picked up a tan and blue checked shirt that looked about Johnny's size and held it up for approval.

Johnny frowned with dislike and started rummaging through the garments. "Move over, let me see," he said. Scott crossed his arms and watched him, occasionally shaking his head from side to side. After a few minutes, Johnny turned to his brother and inquired irritably, "All right, I can tell you're bustin' to say something to me, so out with it."

"Mister," Scott drawled, "I just have one question. What you have done with my little brother?"

"Just because I'm wearing different clothes than you're used to seeing me wearing? I'm the same man. I mean, look at the way you were dressed when you stepped off the stagecoach for the first time. A fancy Dan." As Johnny tried to decide between a blue shirt or a reddish one with embroidery around the collar that reminded him of one of his long-gone favorites, he asked absently, "Which one do you think?"

"No, you're not the same man, Johnny. Take the pink one." Scott didn't take his eyes off his brother as he waited for him to pay attention to what he was saying. Finally, Johnny looked up and met his eyes. Scott demanded, "Explain this fascination you have with the way you're dressed." He reached out to flick at Johnny's stiff collar. "You're all duded up. You used to make fun of me for what I wore, but just look at you."

"I always dress like this. . . now." Johnny shrugged a shoulder. "Nobody's gonna buy ten-dollar booze off a run-down cowboy in flat-heeled boots. Look the part, act the part."

"Is that what this is? An act? Because I'm not buying it."

"I'm not trying to sell you anything, Scott." Despite his better judgment, Johnny said, "You could do with a new shirt, you know. Maybe if you duded up a bit you'd stand a chance with that pretty gal over there. The one who's giving you some mighty enticing looks." He took Scott's arm and steered him around so he could see the lady in question.

Scott colored but raised a hand to his hat. Tipping it, he called a greeting to the woman, but as soon as she replied, he skirted around Johnny and crouched down to look at some pants on a low shelf. "Here, you need pants, too. Black seems to be your new color."

It didn't take long for Johnny to lean his back against the store shelving and prod at Scott's shoulder. "You know her, I take it?"

Scott straightened but he didn't look back in the lady's direction. "Stephen Crook's widow," he said off-handedly then added in an undertone, "He died a couple of years ago when he fell off his windmill and broke his neck."

Johnny remembered Crook, a hard-working man whose small spread was on the road to Lancer. "Uhuh. She doesn't look to be in mourning any more."

Scott glared at Johnny and replied curtly, "Well, I am." He moved away, clearly uncomfortable.

"C'mon, Scott, I didn't mean anything by it . . .look, she's gone now."

"Are you finished?"

Johnny took his meaning, but held up a couple of shirts and the dark pair of pants. "Just have to pay the man and we're on our way. And by the way, this shirt is not pink, it's red."

"I'll wait outside. It's too close in here."

Once his purchases had been wrapped in brown paper, Johnny stepped out on the wooden walkway to find his brother. He was not surprised to find that Scott had been waylaid by the attractive widow, and was pleased to see he was managing to hold a civil conversation with her. Johnny took his time tying his package on the back of his saddle, but Scott politely extricated himself from the lady and mounted his horse without any more ado. All he said to Johnny was, "Let's go and see Val."

***–*** TBC


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3 - THE VISIT

Man is practiced in disguise;  
He cheats the most discerning eyes.

~ John Gay 1738

Green River had grown a great deal over the past several years. It had spread out, with houses and businesses built all along the river for half a mile in both directions. The center of town boasted several saloons and a number of churches to match, which was a positive sign of a thriving community. Johnny noticed that since his last visit there had been changes. The grange hall appeared to be new and to one side the large Moralto Hotel was being freshly painted. Across the street the sheriff's office had apparently undergone expansion and the lumber siding was still fresh; that was the first place the Lancer brothers stopped.

Sheriff Val Crawford wasn't at his desk, and the deputy in charge didn't seem to know where he could he found. Johnny immediately knew which desk was Val's from the mass of periodicals and un-filed papers haphazardly piled on top of it. He picked up a couple of the wanted posters and perused them. "This one's out of date," he said, holding up a flyer that bore the likeness of a bearded man.

Scott raised his eyebrows. "One of your business friends?"

Giving his brother a forced smile. Johnny retorted, "My business friends aren't this ugly. Or dead."

When Scott introduced his brother to the deputy as Johnny Lancer, the man stood up hastily, looking a little alarmed.

Johnny suppressed a grin and just reached out to shake the young man's hand. "John Lancer," he said firmly. "Nice little town. Grown a lot since I last came through here. . .when was that, Scott? A year or more ago."

The deputy, who gave his name as Deputy Bill Payson, shook Johnny's hand as if he thought it was a rattlesnake. Scott watched the exchange with a smirk, but he witnessed the deputy's scrutiny of Johnny's appearance and knew he had noticed the absence of a gun belt.

"I heard of you," Payson said. Then when Johnny regarded him with an unblinking stare, the man stuttered, "I. . .uh. . .I mean to say Sheriff Crawford talks about you a whole lot, Mr. Lancer."

Scott nodded mockingly. "I'll bet he does. We all know this town wouldn't still be on the map without our Johnny here."

Johnny had endured just about enough of Scott's wiseass remarks and turned to give his brother a warning, but at that moment Val walked in.

"You'd think, in a civilized town like this, you could find a fresh peach," Val groused, walking into the sheriff's office, right past Scott. He saw who his visitors were and his eyebrows shot up. Grabbing Johnny's arm in a firm grip, he slapped his old friend heartily on his back. "My God, 'bout time, Johnny! Where in tarnation'd you spring from? Look, I can't stay. I gotta go over to Granger's and settle a bit of trouble. Scott, Johnny, you're comin' over for supper tonight, aren't you?"

Scott replied with a smile, "Now that we're family, how can we say no?"

"Gotta warn you, the little woman's a might peevish." Val dropped the level of his voice and looked at Johnny from under his brows. "One o' them women things, you know. Been hitched for three years now," he said with pride.

"I hear you have another little one on the way, Val." Johnny grinned as he slung an arm around the sheriff's shoulders. "Sounds like you've been taking too much time off and layin' around for a lawman."

It was then that Val seemed to take in Johnny's mode of dress. "What's with this get-up? You look fit to be runnin' Miss Sadie's Sporting House with that mustachio. And where's your hogleg?" Johnny undid his coat to expose his new version of a gun belt and Val stepped back to look him over. After a minute, the sheriff turned to Scott and said out of the side of his mouth, "There somethin' goin' on that I should know about?"

Scott crossed his arms over his chest and casually leaned back on Val's desk, careful not to push any of the papers off it. "Don't ask me, Val. He came packaged like this. He is not my fault. As for the concealed weapon, Johnny, excuse me, I mean Mr. John Lancer, has been tightlipped about the real reason he's wearing it. So far."

Realizing they were going to gang up on him, Johnny stood with his feet apart as if expecting to be tackled. "Just because I'm dressed nice don't mean you have to harass me about it. You two could take notice from my example."

Val looked at Scott again, rolled his eyes, then called to the deputy, "Payson, I'm goin' over to Granger's place." He took a shotgun out of the gun case on the wall and checked it was loaded.

"You want assistance, Sheriff?"

"No, no. But if I don't come back in an hour, send out a posse." Val winked at his friends and made for the door. "You know where my house is, Scott. See you at supper. Try not to let that fancy fellow get too dirty." Johnny swiped at him as he passed, but Val scooted out of the way.

They stepped out into the bright sunlight and Johnny settled his Stetson on his dark hair. "I'm getting hungry, but I have to send a couple of telegrams and mail some letters out. How about we meet back in front of the telegraph office in a bit?" He pulled a gold watch out of his vest pocket. "It's after two. How about three?"

"I guess I'll get my hair cut." Scott wasn't too enthused but he knew he badly needed a trim. He set off in the opposite direction from his brother and was able to get into the barber's chair without any delay. As he was having his mostly-blond hair trimmed, Scott thought about Johnny and wondered if the changes in him were more than surface-deep. He also wondered why those changes annoyed him so much.

Scott did enjoy having Johnny at the ranch, but was willing to lay a bet that he'd leave early, and probably on some flimsy excuse. Johnny seemed to blow in and back out like a desert storm, leaving everyone remaining at the ranch wondering if he'd really been there at all.

Because he was running ahead of schedule, Scott agreed to have a shave as well, and hiding under a wrap of heated towels suited him just fine. It was, he realized, a small luxury in a world that had lost a lot of its appeal. He went through the motions, worked with his father and alongside the ranch hands as enthusiastically as he could, but he knew he wasn't deceiving anyone. There simply was little in life that he loved any more and it showed.

Scott wasn't even sure how or when he had lost his ability to feel happy. It had just. . . faded away. Jenny's death had a lot to do with it, and he'd been despondent for a long time afterwards, but there was something else eating at him. When he thought of his late wife, well that was the only time he felt any real emotion. His reaction to the circumstances of her death always struck him hard with anger. He was slow to boil, but the one and only time he had lost total control was on the one-year anniversary of Jenny's death. The target of his anger had not forgotten it and would probably never forgive him, either.

It was still present, that fury, deep down but still there. It was gnawing at him and he was constantly afraid that it would erupt again. Because Johnny had a way of poking him until he got a rise out of him, Scott was now concerned that this time his own brother would be the recipient of his anger. He sighed deeply. He had to play it low, to close off his emotions and keep an even temper. That was all.

The barber engaged in some small talk with Scott as he shaved him, and asked if it was true that Johnny Lancer was back in town. "We hear he's made it good up in 'Frisco. That so, Mr. Lancer?"

The man seemed eager for news but Scott vowed he wasn't going to get it out of him. "So it seems," was Scott's neutral reply. He paid up and left as soon as he could. There was still a visit to Val's house to get through and he wasn't feeling up to socializing. It wasn't people's fault that Scott could barely tolerate them. He was being anti-social and knew it was alienating most of the people he used to count as his friends. Nowadays he preferred the company of strangers, fellows looking for a no-strings game of poker and a few too many beers, in one of the back-street saloons.

Suddenly, the image of Murdoch came to mind; that first meeting in the great room, the old man looking out the grand window, speaking gruffly to him and Johnny, acting as if he didn't like the world very much and not caring what anyone thought. Scott was afraid he had turned into that man, even as his father had mellowed a great deal over the years.

As Scott walked to the prescribed meeting place, he wondered if men who knew of Johnny's reputation as a gunhawk, and saw him walking around with no weapon in sight, would come gunning for him. Hiding a firearm under your coat might be fine in the city, but out here it was best to honestly display your gun and to be willing to use it.

While Scott waited for Johnny, he looked disinterestedly at the handbills and posters tacked to the exterior paneling of the telegraph office. Items for sale, services being offered, a horse auction held over near Merced. Upon occasion, Scott and his father would ride over to the Merced auction, held quarterly. They broke and trained their own working stock at Lancer, but Murdoch liked to look over the horses up for auction. The appeal of the trip included a chance for him to meet his old cronies at the cattlemen's club, and a one-day stay often extended to two days. It was the only time that Murdoch truly allowed himself to have some fun.

Scott looked up the street, wondering what was holding Johnny up. But as he was about to go in search of him, something struck him as odd. He turned back to peer at the notice for the horse auction and saw it had been held on the previous weekend. Johnny had said that he had bought his new horse at the auction on his way from San Francisco, but Merced was fifty miles to the east, and the railway was to the west of Lancer. He'd also said he'd come through Green River, which also did not lie on the path from San Francisco. He made a mental note to ask Johnny where he had come in from, if not San Francisco.

The Crawford house was located a mile out of town, down a quiet side road, settled among a small cluster of trees. Val had done some work around the place since he and his wife had moved in the year before, and Scott had pitched in a couple of times to help get some of the larger carpentry jobs finished. Scott found the sheriff, for all his gruff exterior, to be a sincere, kind man, and their friendship had become all the more solid when Val married Teresa O'Brien.

None of them had seen it coming, much less Val Crawford, who had given Teresa a hard time at first. At the age of twenty-three, fresh out of a back-East women's college, Teresa set her sights on the sheriff, and went about getting a promise out of him. He never knew what hit him. After the nuptials, she had admitted to Scott that she had been the pursuer and, she said with a laugh, that he had eventually become her willing victim. As a couple, they seemed genuinely happy. With two children and another on the way in their third year of marriage, it appeared that Val was indeed a happily married man.

Due to the expansion of Green River and the influx of immigrants in the area, the county had given the sheriff a substantial raise in salary and allowed him to hire two deputies. With other, younger men able to be left on duty, the Val Crawford was often able to sit down to a family supper, despite his addiction to his job.

When Johnny and Scott rode up to the little house, it was mid-afternoon. Val wasn't likely to join them for several hours. The welcoming committee included Teresa, bearing a small child under each arm, her hired woman, and several small dogs. Upon seeing the visitors riding up the drive, Teresa handed one child off to her help and put the other down in a crib on the wrap-around porch. She ran to greet Johnny, jumping off the porch with her skirts flying, just like a teenaged girl.

Johnny had barely dismounted when Teresa ran into his arms and hugged him tightly. "Oh Johnny! Johnny!" She buried her head in his chest and wouldn't let go.

"Hey, hey! What's all this?" Johnny leaned back and tried to look at her face. "You cryin'?" He looked at Scott for help, but his brother slowly got off his horse and made it obvious he wasn't going to interfere.

Finally Teresa gave a watery smile and put a hand to her hair, which she wore up in a bun, and stroked some stray wisps back off her face. "Oh, don't mind me, it's just. . . I'm so glad to see you." She took in Johnny's changed appearance and tried to cover her dismay.

"You don't like my mustache, do you?" He gave a crooked smile.

"You just look. . .different." She frowned. "Maybe it's not the mustache. There's something. . .different about you?"

Johnny wrapped one arm around Teresa's waist and pulled her along with him when he walked his horse up to the hitching post. "Everyone keeps telling me I've changed, but I don't think I have."

"Your outfit is nice and gentlemanly." She wiped at a damp spot her tears had left on his lapel.

"I'll let you in on a secret, honey. It's camouflage. Still the same old Johnny underneath." He kissed her on the side of her face. Arms intertwined, they walked into the house with Scott trailing behind. Teresa made a point of showing Johnny the carpentry work that Scott and Val had done as she gave him the tour. Afterwards, they took seats on the creaky porch and shared a jug of lemonade while they caught up with family news.

Teresa, with her hair up and her figure filled out a bit, looked like a woman, Johnny thought. Her pregnancy barely showed, but when she caught Johnny looking surreptitiously at her belly, Teresa colored a little and let him know that she was due come autumn.

She said, beaming, "Little Mara and baby Johnny need a brother so we can name him after Scott." Although she looked at the older Lancer brother, who sat off to one side on the porch, he avoided her eyes.

Val had been pleased to call their first child after his best friend, Johnny, but the feminine version of his own name, Valdimar, soon became Mara, which was fine by him. Val doted on the children. Johnny took Mara on his knee and allowed her to play with his watch chain. "How old is she now?"

"Two," said Teresa proudly as she picked up the younger child up from his crib. "And Little Johnny is one. He's quite a handful." She kissed the baby and he made noises, said, "Dub," and squirmed.

Scott was amused. "I think he sounds an awful lot like his Uncle Johnny."

Mara had a ride on Johnny's knee until something set her off and she started to wail. As soon as she started to cry, Bettina, Teresa's help, appeared again and the women took the little ones inside for their supper.

After the crying had been stilled and the children were fed, Teresa returned to the porch. Scott took her hand and tucked it under his arm. "Let's go for a stroll," he suggested. They took a path through the trees and across a field to look at a pond. Johnny followed at a distance, tossing sticks into the long, dry grass for the two barking dogs that accompanied them.

Making sure that Johnny wasn't within earshot, Teresa bent close to Scott and asked, "Is he all right?"

"Who, Johnny?" Scott glanced back to see his brother tugging a large stick from a small dog's mouth. His words had barely been spoken when Teresa stopped to frown at him, so he assured her, "He's fine and he'll be the first to tell you that, after he talks your ear off about his latest business venture." He heard animosity in his tone and was not happy about it.

Teresa started strolling along again, pulling Scott alongside her. "Johnny. . . chatty? I told you there's something going on with him. A woman just senses these thing." They both risked a look back at the subject of their discussion, but they only saw a gentlemanly figure in a city suit stopping to light a cigar.

"He looks ridiculous in that mustache," Scott commented with a snort. "I think he's tried to make himself into a whole other person."

Teresa agreed to some extent. "If he wasn't wearing a cowboy hat and boots, he could very well be someone else," she mused.

"I wouldn't worry, he'll be gone soon enough," Scott said.

"That's positively mean, Scott Lancer. Johnny has a busy life. He has responsibilities, his own family and home to take care of." They continued along the rough path and after a couple of minutes, Teresa said, "It's sad, really. He doesn't belong here any more." She looked into Scott's eyes. "I mean Johnny doesn't belong to _us_ any more."

Scott didn't speak as they walked along a path back towards the house. Teresa was talking to him, but he could barely hear her words. Eventually she asked him if he was all right, and he mumbled he was fine. She went back to keep company with Johnny, and all Scott could think was that his brother was lost to him. She was right. Johnny didn't belong to them any more.

When Johnny had left Lancer, five years earlier, accompanied by his new wife, Scott had been happy for him, but had missed his younger brother greatly. Scott, too, had been newly married, and his wife had helped him overcome the feeling he'd lost his brother. They did visit each other on occasion, but the time between those reunions became spaced further apart over the following years.

When Jenny died, Scott's world collapsed around him and Johnny wasn't there to help him through it. Johnny had attended the funeral, and had offered consolation, but all too soon he and Natalie were gone again. Scott had felt abandoned. Ranching became a chore, and with more work heaped on his shoulders, but with no more responsibility due to Murdoch's tight rein, Scott found he was dissatisfied with every facet of his life. He loved his father, but the old man butted heads with him over everything until Scott came to understand that Murdoch missed wrangling with Johnny. That was when Scott decided not to fight his father any more.

Seeing Johnny again, so much changed in the past year, Scott realized that he'd been wrong to think that his brother owed some sort of responsibility to the ranch. Johnny was his own man, and he had indeed drifted away, but it appeared that was by choice. So, Scott thought, Johnny is free to do what he wants. He had no intention of ever coming back to stay, that was obvious.

Scott vowed, then and there, to alter his attitude towards Johnny. He shouldn't resent his brother for leaving. He should encourage him and put on a bright face, and when Johnny left he would wish him well and he would mean it.

By the time they finished their walk and had settled back in the house, Val was coming down the lane to join them for supper. Scott made his excuses, said he wasn't feeling well, and was going home. That they looked at him with something more than mere disappointment didn't escape his notice. But despite his good intentions he couldn't stand watching the family together, so happy in their unity, when his own heart was dead.

Johnny stomped across the porch and into the kitchen. The screen door slammed behind him. "He won't listen to me." Scott had insisted that Johnny remain at Val and Teresa's for supper, as planned. "He said he was well enough to make it back to Lancer and didn't want company. Serve him right if he falls off his horse on the way home." Teresa looked at him with censure, so he shrugged. "He's a big boy, ma'am."

Teresa said, "I don't know what's got into him lately." Val gave her a sharp glance from his seat at the table, and she stopped, hands on her hips. "And what does that look mean, Valdimar?"

"Nothin'." He picked up his glass of beer and raised it to his mouth without saying another word.

When Teresa moved to the sideboard to get the plates, Johnny winked at his old friend. "Nothing like married life to bring a family closer together."

***–*** TBC


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4 - BUILDING WALLS

Before I built a wall I ask to know  
What I was walling in or walling out.

~ Robert Frost 1914

Johnny relaxed in the rocker near the small fire in the Crawford's cozy parlor. He had removed his jacket and, at Teresa's request, his holster. He sat in his shirtsleeves and fancy vest, enjoying the quiet, homey scene. The children were asleep and Bettina had left for her own home nearby. He traded a few stories with Val, but for the most part they just sat in a comfortable silence.

"How was Murdoch?" Teresa asked. "He must be so pleased to have you home."

"He seemed all right. Kept pretending he didn't need that cane of his."

"He hides it but he uses it when his lumbago acts up. It comes and goes," she replied, picking up some sewing. "I do worry about him."

Val added, "Not to contradict you, dear, but that old man's as tough as whang leather. I saw him out ridin' herd not two weeks back, and the young cowboys were having a hard time keepin' apace with him."

Teresa looked up from her mending. "I still worry. You'll stay the night, Johnny? It's so good to see you, but such a shame Natalie couldn't come this time. We haven't seen her in . . .in such a long time."

She didn't have to say aloud what they all knew, that Natalie hadn't been to Lancer since she and Johnny had attended Jenny's funeral. And once married, she had dropped her familiar name, Tallie, in favor of a name that befitted her position as a married woman.

"Maybe she'll come with me the next time," Johnny said. He looked into the fire and pictured sitting in the front parlor in his own house. It had been expensive to build, especially the installation of the plumbing, but Natalie had wanted the best and, as always, he provided just that for her. Situated in a neighborhood that was still within easy reach of San Francisco's business district, the two-story frame house boasted five bedrooms and two acres of land. They kept a couple of carriage horses and Johnny had become used to tooling around town in a well-sprung carriage with his wife at his side. Natalie had coerced him into moving to San Francisco, which was as far away from Lancer as he was willing to go, though not far enough away for her liking.

Several months after Jenny's death, when Scott and Murdoch had come to San Francisco on business, Natalie and Johnny had done their best to entertain their visitors, but there had been a pall cast over their time together that had been hard to shake.

"It seems every time I want to come visit you I'm having another baby," Teresa said with a smile. She rose and picked up Johnny's empty coffee cup to return it to the kitchen. "It's hard to drag my husband away from his work, as you know. Sometimes I think he's married to the job." She softened her apparent criticism by stroking his hair. Val didn't make any indication he'd felt it, but he didn't shirk away from his wife's touch, either, Johnny noticed.

"D'you want another coffee or can I get you something stronger before I leave?" Val asked as he stood. "We have a place over the stable for guests. Ain't much but Teresa fixed it up in case anyone wants to stay over. As you can see, we're bustin' at the seams here with all the little ones."

Teresa looked up at her husband. "Are you going in to work now? Have you had enough to eat?"

Val laid a hand on the back of her neck and said softly, "I've had plenty. Be back 'fore midnight. Lock up behind us." To Johnny, Val explained, "Gotta check on the deputies. I don't know how it is but they seem to get younger each year."

At that, Johnny stood and stretched and retrieved his holster and coat. "Teresa, it was a real nice meal, and thank you for the invitation to bunk here, but I'm going back to Lancer."

Val said, "Come along to play poker over at my office one night this week, Johnny. The town's usually dead as a skunk after nine, so some of the fellows and me play cards in between goin' on rounds to keep an eye on things. You can demonstrate your draw usin' that fancy rig." Val eyed Johnny's shoulder holster as he slung it over his shoulder and buckled it across his chest.

"And I'll be visiting Lancer for a few days soon," Teresa said with a smile. "When Val starts working the night shift, he can't sleep a wink during the day with all the commotion we make. And Murdoch loves it when the children come to stay."

Johnny put on his jacket and leaned over to kiss her. When his cheek was still close to hers, she held onto him and whispered in his ear, "Please be patient with Scott. He needs a friend."

Johnny nodded, then donned his hat and said his final good-byes.

The two men walked out together and Johnny offered Val one of his cigars. In the time it took Johnny to light one for himself and another for Val, the sheriff had readied his own horse and brought Santiago over for him to mount. With a wave back in the direction of Teresa, who was only a dark silhouette in the lamp-lit kitchen doorway, they set off at a steady pace for Green River.

"Okay, Val, time to 'fess up."

Val had a pretty good idea what Johnny was asking, but it took him a couple of minutes to speak up. "Scott's been gettin' worse, if that's what you mean. He won't come over 'less I ask him several times. Don't speak up much when he does. Like today. You saw how it was - he left as soon as I came home. Now don't get me wrong, your brother helped me a lot last fall when we got settled in here, and he seems fine on the surface, but something's burnin' him up inside."

"You been holding all that in for some time, Val?"

"Aw, you know how it is. Women get these notions, and if I speak my piece aloud, she'll start worryin' about Scott and press me to talk to him about whatever it is."

"Have you tried talking to him?"

"'Course I have. We went huntin' together. He seemed fine for the most part, just real quiet." Val rubbed his jaw.

"But neither of you know what's gnawing at my brother?"

They were approaching the lights of town, so Val reined in his horse and crossed his forearms on the pommel. He tipped his hat back a bit and sighed. "All I know is Scott had a helluva blowout with Dr. Jenkins 'bout eight months back."

"With Sam?" Johnny asked incredulously.

"And no, I don't know what it was about. They went at it, or I hear Scott did. He tore up the Doc's office, too. When I got there, the ruckus was over. They just stood there and wouldn't look me in the eye, both of them all white around the gills, tightlipped as a couple of sour widows. Later I heard that Scott was arrangin' for those doctors and nurses to come out here from Boston. I figured the two of them sorted out whatever was botherin' them."

"I never heard any of this." Johnny removed his hat and settled it back on his head. "When was this?"

"Late summer. I 'member 'cause it was Founder's Day, after the picnic."

"Why didn't Murdoch say anything to me?"

"Maybe because it ain't none of our business," Val hinted. "Look, I gotta go and make sure these deputies of mine haven't locked themselves in the cells and given the lawbreakers their badges. You comin' around my office to play cards in a couple of nights, then?"

"Sure thing. Good to see you." Johnny turned Santiago about and made for Lancer. It was a cool evening, but pleasant for early Spring. He tried to figure out where he had been around the time of the dust-up between his brother and Sam and why nobody had told him about it.

In the end, he concluded that the trouble had occurred at a time when he hadn't been back at Lancer for a period of several months. But he knew the significance of the date that Scott had fought with Dr. Jenkins. The argument, or whatever it had been, had occurred on the one year anniversary of Jenny's death, on Founder's Day. He wondered why his brother had waited a whole year to have it out with the good doctor, and what his beef had been.

It was late by the time he got back to the ranch. Johnny unsaddled Santiago, rubbed him down and let him loose in the corral. There appeared to be only one light shining in the house, and it came from the great room. Johnny gathered up his resolve and walked in, expecting to see Scott sitting in front of the fire. Instead, he found his father bent over the ledgers.

"When are you gonna hire yourself a bookkeeper?" Johnny asked with a drawl.

Murdoch barely glanced up, but after he made one last notation he shut the cover of the large volume and said, "When I'm tired of ranching, perhaps." He smiled tiredly. "I like figuring numbers, even if they don't always come out in the black." He stretched and sat back in his big leather chair.

Johnny sat on the corner of Murdoch's desk and fiddled with a silver inkstand. "I know I'm not a full partner any more, but can I ask if you're running in the red?"

A slight smile played across Murdoch's lips, but it was fleeting. When Johnny had gone off to seek his own fortune, they had deemed it most fair if only Scott and Murdoch had any say in running the ranch. Johnny's portion was held in trust, and Murdoch held out a slight hope that his younger son would return one day to reclaim it. "Running in the red? No, it hasn't come to that. We're diversified enough, more than most big ranchers around here. Scott has been trying to get us to close down some of the side operations on the basis that we're spread too thin. But as we're still making a profit, I don't see any reason to change what doesn't need changing. Is your brother with you?"

A little alarmed, Johnny stood. "He didn't come back earlier? Damn, I shouldn't have let him go off on his own." He briefly told his father how Scott had left Val's house early, but if he expected Murdoch to become upset or even worried he was mistaken.

"He'll find his way home, don't you worry."

But Johnny did worry. He went out to the barn and checked to see if Scott's horse had been stabled, but Victory was not there. He lit a lantern and made his way through the building and out the back to have a look in the pasture. Suddenly, out of the dark came Scott, startling him. "Where have you been?" Johnny demanded, more aggressively than he had intended.

Raising his hands in mock surrender, Scott replied, "Stopped in Morro Coyo for a beer, if you don't mind, brother."

"Smells like more than one beer."

Scott gave him a withering look and pushed past. He ambled up to the hacienda with his hands in his pockets as if he hadn't even encountered Johnny.

Johnny doused the lantern and replaced it inside the barn, then jogged after his brother. By the time he got in the front door, Scott had already ascended the stairs, and Murdoch was standing at its base, watching him go. With his Stetson in his hand, Johnny moved to follow Scott, but his father grabbed his arm.

"Let him go, son."

Johnny resisted for a moment, then turned his head to look at his father. He saw in the old man's face that he was well aware of Scott's turmoil and he was willing to lay a bet that Murdoch also knew what was causing it. Johnny stared at him accusingly. "Are you just gonna let him walk away?"

"We can't fix what's wrong with him, Johnny. Not by following him and bullying him. Scott's not ready to listen, and forcing him will only make it worse."

"Make what worse? I can't just let him go."

"I'm not _asking_ you to let him go."

Johnny looked pointedly at the hand restraining him from following his brother up the stairs. With deceptive softness, he said, "Let go of my arm, old man, or you're gonna be inviting more trouble than you can handle."

Murdoch released his hold on him and gave a wry smile, much to Johnny's surprise.

"I wondered what it would take for my son to reappear," Murdoch said.

Nonplussed, Johnny concentrated on the hat in his hands for a moment, then glanced up to gauge his father's mood. "I've been here all the time. Just layin' low." He shifted his weight. "You're not gonna tell me what's going on with Scott, are you?"

Murdoch shook his head. "It's not my place. Just spend some time with your brother and he may open up to you."

"All right. I promised to help out on the range for a couple of days. We'll have plenty of time together."

"Then you'd better turn in or you'll be dead in the saddle before tomorrow's nightfall comes. Good night, Son."

"Night, Father."

On his way to his room, Johnny saw a sliver of light coming from under Scott's door. He hesitated, itching to go in and have it out with him, but as Murdoch and Val had both pointed out, whatever was going on was Scott's own business. While he was standing there indecisively, the light was extinguished, so Johnny moved on to his own room and to bed.

Scott let out the breath he'd been holding since he'd heard the soft footfall of his brother just outside his door. He was dreading the confrontation he was sure would come, especially after his behavior that evening.

He never should have stopped for a few rounds of poker and a drink, well, several drinks, at the cantina, but upon leaving Teresa and Val's home, he had been caught in a kind of limbo. If he'd returned home early, Murdoch would have been after him, asking difficult questions and trying hard in his gruff way to be kind.

At this point, Scott couldn't bear any kindness, for fear it would break him. His timing had been off and he'd been as startled as Johnny when he'd run into him out by the barn. He'd felt a bit like a youth sneaking back in after staying out past curfew.

There was a cabin on the other side of the ridge that Scott had cleaned up and made livable back when he was first married. He and Jenny used to spend a couple of days there every now and then, enjoying being truly alone. It was their very own place.

These days it was a bit unkempt, but Scott occasionally sought it out as a refuge. Sometimes, when he should have been heading home, he'd veer over to the cabin and sit on the small porch, or make some coffee and read a book by the stone fireplace. But, of course, it wasn't the same without Jenny - it would never be the same again. He'd loved the cabin while Jenny was alive to enjoy it with him, but now his visits to their getaway made the pain of her absence seem all the more keen. He'd considered avoiding the cabin all together, but he was drawn to it and the memories that lingered there.

Nowadays, as an alternative to going home after completing whatever business had taken him away from the ranch, Scott would sometimes stop at one of the neighboring towns. He'd play some friendly cards or seek out some casual company and take in a few drinks. He'd often return home late, sometimes so late that he'd get looks from the hands, and even from Murdoch, that suggested they thought he had a woman somewhere. Let them think what they wanted.

Johnny might not be so easy to fool, but tomorrow they'd be working hard and there would be no time for idle conversation. No, Johnny wasn't about to confront him, if his brother was still the same person he used to be. He often started a conversation about something, then veered sideways to get to the matter he was really interested in. The trick was not to get sucked in by the tactic. After more than a year's worth of practice at avoiding people, Scott felt sure he could put up as much of a wall as needed to keep his brother at bay.

Scott thought about the vow he'd made earlier that day. He told himself that Johnny deserved his own life, and that neither of them should feel guilty over their choices. If the tables had been turned, and if he had been given the choice to leave Lancer, Scott knew he would never have taken it. Despite his genteel upbringing, his life at Lancer had been everything he'd ever wanted. Then, to find a woman he loved with all his heart to share that life with, well, he couldn't have been any happier.

/I should have known it was too good to be true./

As for Johnny, he had learned life's lessons early and then had to make considerable changes in his lifestyle during his time at Lancer. He had learned to bend and accommodate, but Murdoch hadn't allowed Johnny any leeway to build his own niche within the Lancer empire. After only a couple of years, Scott had seen his brother chomping at the bit, burning with the need to excel on his own.

And look at him now, thought Scott. Johnny had rolled with the punches and recreated himself, yet again. To go from being an orphaned, raw boy to a reputable gunfighter, and then on to become a rancher, had taken a great deal of flexibility. Now Johnny had everything a man could ever want - a wife and fine home, a business he had built from the ground up, and that freedom he had always desired. Unfortunately, Johnny's gain had been their loss. 'Even so, good for him. . . good for him,' Scott murmured aloud.

Johnny donned his new ranching clothes at dawn and made his way down to breakfast. He only had time for some hot oatmeal and one cup of coffee, as well as some good-natured ribbing from a couple of the ranch hands about the creases in his new store-bought shirt and pants, when Scott showed up with their horses.

Scott had chosen a tough little working horse for Johnny to ride. "He has a hard mouth, but he'll stay the course. One of the wranglers is cutting out a string of fresh horses for us right now. You won't want to ride that new horse of yours herding cattle."

Johnny and Scott rode out early with a crew of men and stayed out until it was too dark to work any longer. They competed in their own brotherly way, each of them striving to out-rope, outride and simply outdo each other on that first day. When they returned home, Johnny could barely remain awake long enough to eat supper, and then it was early to bed with no chance to talk to Scott. 'There'll always be another day,' thought Johnny as his head hit the pillow and he fell straight to sleep.

***–*** TBC


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5 - THE SHOWDOWN

Reason flies  
When following the senses, on clipped wings.

~ Dante 1321

Johnny hadn't realized how out of shape he was until he got out of bed the next morning. He was stiff and sore in places he'd forgotten existed, but he covered it up well. By lunchtime, the brothers found a middle ground and settled into a companionable way of working together.

Over the next couple of days they joined their cowpokes moving the stock, took care of some improvements to the land and then rode into the hills to survey a mining operation that Scott was considering closing down.

Scott talked to the men laboring at the mine for a while and listened to their concerns. When he had finished his business and he and Johnny were riding away, Scott said, "I don't see any point in throwing good money after bad with these small mines. The big companies out in Colorado produce massive amounts of ore and we piddle around with a half-ton a quarter."

"Why don't you close it down?"

"It's not that easy and besides, it's not my call. Our father has the last say about everything, or don't you remember?"

"Oh yeah, I remember, but I'd have thought-."

"It's not our job to think, Johnny. It's to scout and report," Scott said sharply.

"Doesn't the old man let you off for good behavior?" Johnny knew how things worked around Lancer, but he considered that Scott had as much of a stake in the ranch as did the old man. "Maybe it's time you took over some of the decision making."

Scott hauled on the reins until his horse halted. His features were set and inflexible. "You're a silent partner now, remember?"

Watching his brother pivot his horse and ride away, Johnny almost laughed at the rebuke. He shook his head. Scott was getting more like Murdoch every day. Johnny had given up any rights as far as decisions about the ranch when he'd left, and he took no reward from its income, but he could still speak his mind if he wanted to.

Barranca had healed up so Johnny was finally able to ride him. Once mounted, it was as if he'd never been away. The horse responded to his every touch, and seemed to enjoy being back at work.

Scott smiled at the palomino's obvious pleasure at being ridden. "He doesn't get out much, even though I ride him when I can," he said apologetically. "Are you going to take him with you when you leave?"

"He likes it here, Scott. Plenty of pasture, good care." Johnny was torn about whether or not to leave Barranca at Lancer when he left in a week or so.

"It seems as though your new black gelding is more your style these days," Scott said in an offhand tone. "You're leaving all the old things behind, aren't you?"

That got Johnny's back up. "Maybe Santiago _is _more my style. We can't all live in the past, now can we?" He spurred his palomino and set off at a gallop, and Scott followed suit.

After another grueling day following Scott around and doing whatever tasks he was assigned without any complaint, Johnny decided he'd had enough. "I'm going to clean up and go see Val. You want to come and play cards with us?"

Scott sat in his saddle and pointedly looked at the sun. "It's still daylight."

"It's suppertime anyhow." Johnny patted Barranca's neck. "My horse has had enough, too." As if to agree, the palomino bobbed his head up and down, eliciting a laugh from Johnny.

"There's still a lot to do, Johnny and-."

"Scott, we've done more than our share today. I know you want to wear me into the ground, and you've accomplished just that, but we both need a break." Johnny cajoled, "A hot bath, a little supper, a visit with some old friends, a few hands of cards. . ."

Surprisingly, Scott agreed. "Val's working nights this week, isn't he?"

"Yeah, and Murdoch said Teresa is coming today, with the nursemaid and the kids." He shifted in his saddle. "They should be at the hacienda by the time we get in."

With a sigh, Scott said, "Then I guess we'd better get all spiffed up and be at the table on time."

"Wouldn't hurt you to put on some clean clothes for the guests," Johnny said with a smirk.

"Well, I'll be sure to follow your example, brother." With that said, Scott turned his horse in the direction of home. He wondered if he could make it all the way through a family meal without finding the need to make up an excuse to leave. The more people there were in a room, the more isolated he felt.

Supper had not been quite the chore that Scott had expected it to be. Perhaps it was because Johnny had acted as a buffer and with Teresa there they'd found plenty of subjects to talk about. Teresa, sitting next to Bettina, was wearing one of the finest dresses that Scott had ever seen her in, and with her hair put up and a few tendrils framing her face she appeared radiant.

The children were present, with Mara ensconced in a wooden high chair that her granddad Murdoch had made, and little Johnny seated on Bettina's lap. Crying erupted before the second course, so the women took the children up to bed. Teresa soon returned, saying that Maria's granddaughter was up there to help out, and that everything was under control. They moved to the great room to sit in front of the fire after the meal, but soon both Teresa and Murdoch began to yawn.

When Scott saw Murdoch nod off, he told Teresa in a low voice, "I'm going to town with Johnny."

Teresa kissed each of them good night, and lightly lectured them about watching the other players' eyes for hints of bluffing. She hugged Scott warmly, noting that he looked nicer than usual in a crisp white shirt. She thought that his fresh haircut had taken a couple of years off his age, too. "And keep an eye on that husband of mine."

"Don't worry," Scott replied, purposely misunderstanding her. "I can tell when he's bluffing a mile off. I'll get the horses, Johnny."

Teresa followed Johnny to the door and gave him a quick hug. "You boys will take care, won't you?"

Johnny glanced back at the dozing figure of his father and asked Teresa in an undertone, "Should we be expecting some kind of trouble?"

"I don't want to make a fuss, but there's a rancher, Hal Granger, who's been making trouble recently. Val won't say so, but I get the feeling this man has made some kind of threat. I don't want to sound like an alarmist but Granger gave me the most awful look in town the other day and I, well I have bad feeling about him. I'm sure that's why my husband wanted me to bring the children here while he's working all-nighters."

When Johnny thought of someone threatening his family, his anger rose and his heart hardened. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced for some time, a way for him to separate himself from his loved ones in order to defend them. He schooled his emotions, kissed the top of Teresa's head and said, "I'll watch out for him."

The poker game was in the front room of the large sheriff's office in Green River. Due to several prisoners in the cells in the back, Val or one of his deputies had to remain on duty. That didn't stop Sheriff Crawford from asking three of his friends in to play cards with him and the Lancer boys. Occasionally during the play he had to go out and check on the town, or to settle some small fracas. Later in the evening Deputy Bill Payson came on duty so Val sent him on the next patrol.

Val's friends looked from Johnny to Scott when the brothers first walked in. Wearing a white shirt and a honey-colored corduroy jacket that matched his blond hair, Scott's appearance couldn't have looked any more different from Johnny's if he'd tried. They had both dressed well for supper earlier that evening, due to Teresa's presence, and neither had changed for the poker game.

Johnny had shed his work clothes in favor of his dark city attire once again, complete with yet another fancy vest, this time of rich red silk. With his dark hair and mustache, bronzed skin, black hat and a black string tie, he looked enough out of place for the men at the poker table to immediately stand to shake his hand.

Johnny seemed slightly abashed by the attention, but after a short while and a round of drinks from the bottle of whiskey he had thought to bring along, they all acted like old friends. There was some good-natured ribbing about his clothing and his shoulder holster, and Johnny was asked to demonstrate how he drew his revolver without it catching on his clothing.

After a while, Scott suggested, "How about we get this game going before dawn, gentlemen?" He pulled cash out of his pocket, purchased a stack of chips and gave half to his brother without even looking at him.

Johnny just nodded his thanks. He enjoyed playing games of chance, but he never took them too seriously.

Scott was more of a gambler, for all of his good sense, but he insisted he worked out all the odds and that was why, he said, he often took most of the pot home. "You have to remember," Scott pointed out, "that Murdoch says he won the ranch with three jacks and a bluff, so who are we to deny ourselves a little poker?"

The players took a break to chow down on some food they'd ordered from the cantina across the way. Johnny took the opportunity to pull Val aside and ask him about Granger. "Teresa said you've had run-ins with this man?"

"Hal Granger is just another bully. Been lookin' for trouble ever since his wife ran off with some greenhorn." The sheriff jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the jail cells. "Granger's son is one of our guests tonight. He got a little rough with one of the gals at Miss Sadie's. I'm afraid he's taking after his Pa," he said sourly. "Granger gets drunk on a regular basis but hasn't done nothin' I can pin on him. Not yet anyways." He gave Johnny a taut smile. "But then it's only Thursday."

"Did he threaten our family?"

"Not in so many words. I hit him with the butt of my pistol anyways. Didn't like the smirk on his face. Teresa said he made some comment to her on the street and it wasn't his words, she said, but the way he looked at her and the kids that scared her." Val was glad that his wife and children were safe at Lancer, in any case.

Johnny watched Scott talking in a friendly manner with one of the poker players. At least there was no sign of anything troubling his brother that evening. Johnny turned back to Val and asked, "Is this Granger going to take the hint?"

"Well, so far, Granger hasn't done anything but talk, but he might get riled up with his kid incarcerated. Or if he's cornered." Val rubbed at his chin and shrugged. "Who's to say what a man'll do when he's pushed a might too hard?"

Johnny asked, "You figure that Teresa is exaggerating?"

Pulling a face, Val said, "She's expecting, and sees danger behind every bush. You know women."

"Yeah, but not too many pregnant ones," Johnny replied.

Around ten, Johnny put on his jacket and went out front to take in some of the cool night air and to have a smoke. Although he loved sampling cigars, he also enjoyed an occasional cigarette. He took his time rolling his smoke using a sheet of rice paper, peering back in the sheriff's office window now and then. Scott seemed to be getting along fine with the other players, probably because they were running a tight game and the skill level was pretty high - for a small town. Johnny thought the competition was a good challenge for his brother.

Green River was quiet enough. Johnny leaned back against the building and kept an eye on the street out of habit. A few men sauntered in and out of the cantina opposite but the larger and better-lit Moralto Hotel seemed the be the most popular place in town. Even from a distance, Johnny could see activity within: gambling and entertainment provided by some dance hall girls. When he and Scott left the sheriff's game, Johnny thought he'd try to get his brother to accompany him into the Moralto for a bit of fun.

The second deputy came out of the office and made off down the street, rattling stores' locked doors as he went on his rounds. Johnny had been introduced to him earlier but had promptly forgotten his name. The man seemed pale and characterless, but if Val had hired him, he must be good at his job, Johnny thought, as he inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply. The tobacco burned evenly and had a good flavor, but the pleasure he got from it didn't last long. After a while, Johnny was lured back into the sheriff's office by the sound of Scott's laughter.

Just as Johnny stepped back inside, a shot rang out from somewhere up the street. Within a couple of seconds, Sheriff Crawford was out the door, a shotgun in one hand. He yelled back to his remaining deputy to stick with the prisoners. Scott and Johnny followed without question, guns drawn.

They cornered Hal Granger in the barroom of the Moralto Hotel. The clients and dance hall girls had taken cover and ducked out of the saloon as soon as trouble started. The body of the deputy lay in the center of the floor with blood flowing in an ever-widening pool around him. There was no doubt he was already dead. Val was poised about twenty feet from Granger, who was at the far end of the long bar. The sheriff stood at an angle, his shotgun held at the ready, braced against his hip as he tried to reason with the armed man.

Granger stood with his back against the wall, his eyes darting wildly around the room. There was a smoking revolver in his hand, but it was held loosely and aimed at the floor as if he'd forgotten it was still clutched in his hand.

"Now, Hal," Val cajoled, "how about you put that pistol there down so we can talk about this all peaceful-like?"

Scott slowly moved to the right until he was at the near end of the long mahogany bar and, without any direction, Johnny stepped to the left. He took cover behind a pillar and waited for Granger to give himself up. Or raise his gun. He hoped the man was going to try to fight his way out.

Out of nowhere Johnny recalled the name of the dead deputy: Hansen. The deputy didn't deserve to get shot down like that. No man did.

Without warning, Granger upended a large round table, ducked behind it and sent a volley of shots in the direction of the sheriff. Val hit the floor and rolled. He ended up close to Scott, who got off a couple of rounds that took chunks out of the wooden tabletop. Granger raised his head to return the fire, and Val let go with one barrel of the shotgun.

The blast tore out a sizeable section of the table, but Granger somehow evaded the flying lead and scuttled to better cover behind the end of the bar. He laughed even though he was pinned down and yelled, "You ain't gonna get away with jailin' my boy! Gonna take you out, Crawford, then I'm going after your family, that's for damned sure!"

Johnny knew that there was no way that either Scott or Val was going to get a clear shot at the killer with the whole length of the bar between them. It appeared that Granger was focused on Val and Scott's location and wasn't even aware that Johnny was also in the barroom. Had Granger used up all of his ammo? Johnny was pretty sure the killer had one bullet left, but there was a big difference between one bullet and none.

Val called out, "Gonna take a better man than you to get through me, Granger. This ain't gonna get your boy outta my jail! Now do what's best for everyone concerned and toss out your gun." The sheriff cautiously peered around the end of the bar, but couldn't see Granger from his position.

"You're not gonna tell me what to do, Crawford," retorted the man pinned down behind the bar. "Just give me one clean shot and I'll put you out of your misery!"

Johnny was the only one who could see their quarry hunkered down behind the protection of the bar, although the man was only partially visible. Johnny took a step back, keeping the wooden pillar in the line of sight between him and Granger, and prepared to move out into the open.

Scott saw the movement out of the corner of his eye. His heart was in his mouth when he realized his brother was about to attempt a preemptive action. He risked distracting Johnny and made a sharp motion with his hand, indicating he should stay back where he was and wait until he could outflank Granger. Johnny must have seen him, but took no notice. Scott swore under his breath. Just when Scott crouched and started sneaking along the inside of the bar, Johnny made his move.

Letting out a deep breath, Johnny stepped from behind his cover. With his hands held out to indicate he was unarmed, he took a step forward and called Granger's name loudly to get his attention. Just as if it was in slow motion, Johnny saw the man's head turn to look at him, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

Granger took in Johnny's raised hands, but any hesitation he had at shooting at an unarmed man was soon dismissed. Swiveling, Hal Granger raised his gun to use his last bullet to kill the fellow in the city suit. His gun fired with a roar and a cloud of spent powder.

***–***TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Note: thanks for the comments, folks, both public and private!

CHAPTER 6 - BAD MEDICINE

A disease known is half cured.  
~ Thomas Fuller, M. D. 1732

Granger raised his revolver and took aim at the foolhardy man heading straight towards him. He didn't even have time to take it in when one of the man's hands dipped into the breast of his fancy coat and came out with a Colt. Granger fired his last bullet, all right, but it careened into the tin ceiling as he fell in a heap on the saloon floor, a bullet lodged in his heart. The last thing he ever saw was his dark-haired killer standing over him, re-holstering his gun somewhere under his arm as he spat contemptuously, "That's the last time you threaten any of my family, that's for damned sure."

"I don't see what's eatin' you, Scott. You won everyone's money at poker, didn't you?" In his own defense, Johnny was being flippant as a way of deflating the tension. Even though he knew it had been a righteous killing, he was dealing with the aftermath. He felt badly, just as he always did when he was the cause of any man's death. Experience had shown him it was something he had to ride out on his own.

"You don't seem to see much of anything," was all Scott would say. He fumed all the way home from Green River, glad of the cover of darkness that fitted his mood. Johnny had put himself in danger, as usual, with little thought for anyone else. If he'd only waited, Scott could have moved into a closer position with the bar for cover. With Val at the helm they could have taken the man out together. But no, Johnny had to step right out and blast Granger away.

Afterwards, back in the sheriff's office, Val had acknowledged that it didn't matter who had put an end to Granger. It was done, he said. He went back to the cells to inform the imprisoned Junior Granger of his father's death and then went off to break it to Deputy Hansen's family that he had died in the line of duty.

Scott, however, was not about to be so matter of fact. By the time they rode through the Lancer arch it was the dead of night, and he had worked himself up into a lather and found his voice again. As they approached the front of the almost-dark hacienda, Scott blurted, "You just had to go in there and do it your own way, didn't you?"

Johnny pulled Barranca up, slowing him to a walk. "I didn't know there was some plan I shoulda followed. Oh yeah, find the enemy, engage him, then destroy him. Isn't that it?"

Paying no heed to the sarcasm, Scott retorted, "It was up to the sheriff to make the first move, but you just went in and took over. Did it your own way, as always. No regard for others. Isn't that the Johnny Lancer way? Or maybe I should say the Madrid way."

"The way I look at it, all that matters is the way it ended, and as far as Val was concerned making Granger dead was the objective. That man threatened Val and his family - _our_ family. Why are you all riled up over this?" Angry at being raked over the coals, Johnny tapped Barranca with his heels and headed for the corral. Although it was very late, one of the ranch hands was still up to take care of the horses. Johnny usually took care of his own mounts, but this time he handed Barranca over to the man with a curt word of thanks, then headed up to the house.

Scott caught up to Johnny on the front verandah. "You just stood there in plain sight, Johnny, asking for that man to shoot you."

Johnny halted with one hand on the front door handle and turned to respond. "I seem to recall you were runnin' faster than I was tryin' to get to the scene of the shootin'."

"But I was working with Val. You were there on your own agenda."

"I did what seemed best at the time," Johnny insisted. "So if it meant showing myself so Granger would poke his scrawny neck out, then that was an acceptable risk."

"Why would you set yourself up like that? I was. . ." Scott stared at his brother, his words trailing off. He bit his lip and pushed his way into the house without finishing his sentence.

Johnny caught up to Scott in the foyer. "Wait, will you wait a minute," he ordered tersely, trying to keep his voice down lest he awake the people sleeping upstairs. "You were what?" When Scott stopped and stood with one hand on the banister but didn't reply, Johnny said, "I give up. If you want to talk about this, you know where to find me." He started up the stairs, but hadn't taken two steps when Scott's voice came to him from behind.

"I was scared for you, Johnny! You're not even wearing your gun belt!"

Johnny stopped in his tracks and turned to face his brother. He said earnestly, "I knew what I was doing." He could see that Scott wasn't buying it; his face was etched with lines of deep concern. "Look, Scott, I've practiced drawing with from shoulder holster 'til my elbow was sore. I got the jump on that man because he never expected me to reach under my coat. Simple as that."

"Simple as that." Scott ran a hand over his mouth and breathed deeply. "Sometimes," he said in a low, intense voice, "I think that you believe you're indestructible." Johnny made a motion to dismiss the notion, but Scott overrode him, saying, "You take risks, Johnny, when there's no need to. Is it just bravado, or egotism?"

Far from being insulted, Johnny was curious as to why Scott was getting so worked up. "I do what comes natural. I can't change what's inside, Scott. Believe me, I've tried. Anyway, it's not like I've never faced a man down before."

"Don't you see that every time you put yourself at risk you're hurting us? If I lost you in some damned shootout. . ." Scott took a moment to collect himself then said fervently, "Teresa says you don't belong to us any more, but she's wrong. She's wrong! You'll always be an important part of Lancer, no matter where you are, and everything you do has an impact on us. Don't we matter to you at all any more?"

Astounded, Johnny he replied, "Of course you matter. And I'm still part of the family."

"Well, you don't act like it, Johnny."

"The hell I don't! And what about you? You're mopin' around here wallowing in your own misery. Where's all those guts you brought with you when you came to Lancer for the first time? You're lettin' the old man ride over you, Scott. You should be running this place, not bowing to his decisions like you ain't got no say in it at all."

Scott stood stock still, frozen, his eyes burning with an intensity Johnny hadn't seen in him for some time. Glaring back at his brother, Johnny waited for a sign Scott was going to strike out, but it never came. Johnny relented and said, "I might not come home very often, but I want to be here, I do, but. . . I miss Lancer and I miss you and Murdoch. Damn it, you know how I feel, Scott."

"I don't know anything for sure any more." Scott was suddenly tired. "I have to get to bed."

Troubled when Scott gave in so easily, Johnny slung his arm around his older brother's shoulder and gave him a shake. "Darn right we need to get some sleep. We have to be up at the crack of dawn to cut out those cattle Murdoch wants to send to market. You want me to wake you, old man?"

In spite of still being angry at Johnny for putting himself in jeopardy, and confounded by all the emotions boiling inside himself, Scott eased up. "Who are you calling old? You're almost thirty, as I recall. Your knees'll be creaking in no time at all, then your hairline will recede-."

"Then I'll put springs in my boots and wear my hat to bed," Johnny replied lightly. He whispered, "C'mon upstairs, before we wake up the really old folk in this house."

They crept up the stairs and made it to their bedrooms without raising the women or children who were safely tucked in their beds. But neither of the Lancer brothers realized that their father was not in his bedroom. Murdoch was sitting in front of the dying embers of the fire in the great room, and he had heard most of what his sons had said.

The next morning Teresa was feeding the children in the kitchen when Scott came down. When she said she hadn't seen any sign of Johnny yet, he went back upstairs to see if his brother was still asleep. He hadn't been able to get much sleep, but Scott laid a bet Johnny had enjoyed a good sleep. Knocking heavily on Johnny's door, he called out, "C'mon, Johnny, you said you'd be ready to ride up to-." Scott opened the bedroom door but halted when he saw that Johnny was not only out of bed, but that he was standing near the washstand without any clothes on.

Scott backed out with a murmured apology, but Johnny turned around and called, "Scott, wait!"

Surprised at the hint of desperation in Johnny's voice, Scott re-entered the bedroom. "What's wrong?"

Johnny turned his back on Scott, but after a deep breath, mumbled, "I've got this. . . this place on my leg where I got banged up and . . . " He turned again, sending an appeal with his eyes. "I can't get the bandage to stick. I guess I need your help." He added, "And shut that door."

At first, Scott thought that one of Granger's bullets had grazed Johnny, but as soon as he saw the location of Johnny's wound he knew it was the reason his brother had given up his hip-hugging gun belt. Johnny held a patch of white gauze over an area on his hip, several inches below his waist - right where the belt of his holster would normally lie. "Move that aside and let me see it, Johnny." When Johnny wouldn't remove his hand from the bandage, Scott raised his eyebrows. "I've seen plenty of holes in you before, in case you don't recall."

Johnny's eyes flickered and then he moved his hand away to expose a raw and seeping wound. It was a purplish gouge, a couple of inches long, with rough ends. The trough had been caused, by the looks of it, by a bullet plowing through his flesh. No wonder he'd doubled up with pain when Scott had playfully swatted at him a few days earlier.

"How'd you manage to ride a horse with this?" Scott asked in exasperation.

Johnny twisted and peered at his hip. "It was fine until I got up this morning. I covered it up with lots of padding, but I guess all that riding and getting sweaty rubbed at it some."

"Give me that gauze," Scott ordered, all business. There was a bottle of carbolic and some bandages sitting near the washbasin; apparently Johnny had come well equipped. Scott said, "It looks like you knew exactly which medical supplies to bring along with you."

"Practice makes perfect," Johnny retorted lightly.

Scott dabbed at the wound with some of the liquid and patted it dry, ignoring Johnny's winces and the way he muttered under his breath. "If you ask me," Scott said, "and I know you aren't asking me, this needs more than a change of bandage. You should see a doctor. Either Jenkins or Dr. Beauregard should be in their clinic today." He glanced up at Johnny, but the inflexible look on his brother's face told him it was futile to make any further attempt to convince him to see a physician.

There was some ointment to apply, which caused more flinching, then a fresh square of heavy gauze and some very sticky tape that Johnny helped him to adhere.

When they were done, Johnny slowly dressed, pulling his long-john bottoms and then his trousers on with exaggerated care. He put on a pale blue shirt, then a dark gray silken vest and took his time about knotting a string tie around his neck.

Scott tossed Johnny his boots, then leaned back on the bed. He'd seen his brother perform various rituals over the years, usually before some big event, such as the precise way he cleaned his gun before a fight. It seemed to him that Johnny's preoccupation with his clothing had something of a ritual about it. He had never been very concerned with his attire in the past, so Scott wondered where it stemmed from. It was probably the wife's influence, he thought. It was surprising how much sway women had on a man. Natalie had always wanted the best of everything, and it appeared to have rubbed off on Johnny.

Scott saw changes in Johnny's physique. He was heavier with muscle, his chest bore more hair, and there appeared to be a couple of scars that hadn't been on his arm and lower back a few years earlier. He'd probably never know the full story of their origins, but he sure was going to find out about the gouge on Johnny's hip. "You want to tell me how this happened?"

"Long story. You probably don't want to know."

"You want to try me?"

Johnny buckled up his shoulder holster and squinted sideways at him. He tried to sound light, but the words came out bitter. "Got shot by a whore."

Scott stood. "You're right. I probably don't want to know." He awaited further explanation, anyway.

"There was a bit too much drinking, I guess," Johnny said nonchalantly.

"And whoring."

"Yeah, some of that, too."

"You're married, Johnny."

The dark-haired man formed a retort, but he put it aside and instead said, "Look, I need to go into town to get some more. . ." He waved at the mess of soiled gauze, near-empty roll of tape and bottle of carbolic.

"There's an apothecary in Spanish Wells now." Scott stalked to the door, but stopped at the threshold. "Maybe you should stock up on supplies if you're expecting to make a habit of standing out in the open and inviting people to shoot you."

"I'll take the buggy after breakfast." Johnny shrugged on his suit jacket and checked he had his money clip in the pocket. Knowing he shouldn't leave any evidence of having been wounded around, Johnny put the medical supplies in one of his valises and kicked it under his bed.

Scott said firmly, "I'll drive." Johnny shot him a startled look, so Scott explained, "I need to speak to Dr. Beauregard and he's usually at the clinic on Fridays. If we go now, I'll buy you breakfast in town."

Johnny went ahead, and if Scott hadn't known about the wounded hip, he never would have noticed his brother's slight limp. On the way out, Scott stopped to inform Murdoch of their plans to go to Spanish Wells, but didn't go into any details about Johnny's injury.

Murdoch took his older son aside and said in a low voice, "Val came by early, before sunup, to make sure everyone was all right." Scott looked uncomfortable but the older man didn't give him any leeway. "Next time I expect to be told what's going on. Understand?"

"Yes."

In a kinder voice, Murdoch asked, "Is this little trip connected to last night's run-in with that man Granger?"

Scott wondered how much Val had told the old man. "No. Johnny needs some things from town. We'll be back at work soon as we can."

Murdoch made a dismissive gesture. "I don't care about the work, Scott. I care about my boys. You will tell me if there's something I need to know, won't you?"

Scott knew his father was referring to knowing what was going on with Johnny. It was up to his brother to impart any news about himself; it wasn't Scott's place to be the informant. "I think that Johnny is capable of talking to you if he feels the need."

"But it's _you_ I'm trusting, son."

Scott nodded at the rebuke. His father was entrusting Johnny's care to him, even if he didn't want that responsibility. "Does Teresa know what occurred last night in Green River?"

"Val went up to talk to her, so I expect he told her what he thought she needed to know. He didn't stay long. He said he was going home to get some sleep because he's working the night shift again." Murdoch laid a hand on Scott's shoulder. "Is Johnny really all right? You two are getting along?"

His father had obviously caught on to the animosity between his two sons. Scott said simply, "He'll be fine."

Clamping a hand on his tall son's shoulder, Murdoch sighed. "You boys don't seem to realize that one way or another, I do find out everything that goes on around here." His grip softened, as did his expression. "Perhaps next time you'll tell me up front so I don't have to pretend I already know all about it when someone informs me that my sons were involved in a gun battle in a saloon."

"Yes, Sir."

"Good, then we'll see you later." The sound of a child's screams came from somewhere upstairs. Murdoch smiled crookedly. "It looks like I'll have my hands full right here coping with the next generation of troublesome children."

Johnny tried not to squirm too much, but the bouncing around was causing his hip to hurt despite the buggy's cushioned seat, and his back was giving him some serious twinges, too. His back hadn't flared up for a while, but in the past few days it had been getting increasingly more painful. He nonchalantly reached back with his left hand to hold his lower back, but Scott looked at him sideways. There was no fooling Scott, that was for sure.

"You need to see the doctor."

"I don't need no doctor to tell me what I already know," Johnny replied sharply. After a few minutes he asked, "Who's this new doc you're meeting? You arranged for him to come out West?"

Scott snapped the reins on the back of the buggy horse to keep him moving along at a brisk pace. "There are two extra doctors now. Charles Irving, from New York, and George Beauregard. He's the one I hope to see this morning. I knew him back in Boston, when he was a student." He smiled to himself. "Nice fellow. He learned a great deal as a medic during the war. Anyway, last year when this district decided to actively recruit some new doctors and trained nurses, I helped with the process. The clinic in Spanish Wells serves this county. I'm on the county health committee now."

"Health committee, huh? What did Sam think about all this new blood?" Johnny watched Scott for his reaction and wasn't surprised to see his brother tense up. There was some residual animosity lurking there, without a doubt.

"He agreed that we were behind the times," Scott said stiffly. "He was appreciative of any help he could get. Not that he had a choice. The towns raised incentive money and we've all worked hard to make these folks feel welcome. The other doctor, Irving, has more experience with infectious diseases, and he goes out on house calls mostly. He shares the territory with Dr. Jenkins."

"And Sam doesn't mind sharing?"

"There are more than enough patients to go around, Johnny." Scott turned to look at Johnny and said with a straight face, "Of course now that you're here, Sam's work load will double."

Johnny chuckled. "Maybe you'd better get the county to recruit a second undertaker, too." A glance Scott's way showed he wasn't amused, but Johnny shrugged it off.

***–***TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Note: Thanks to those who have posted as guests. I can't reply to you personally but I appreciate you taking the time to leave a comment.

CHAPTER 7 - A MATTER OF TRUST

There are some remedies worse than the disease.  
~ Publilus Syrus, 1st c. B.C.

Spanish Wells had not grown at the same pace as Green River, but there were definitely some signs of progress. Wooden sidewalks extended the length of the business district, lampposts stood on every corner and there was even a man assigned to clean up animal waste in the street twice a day.

Scott pointed out some other changes in the little town as he guided the buggy along the main street, but Johnny wasn't listening. There was a clenching in his gut, but he told himself it was because he hadn't eaten breakfast and the previous night's excitement and his considerable consumption of alcohol had upset his stomach.

Johnny wanted to see Sam if he was around, but only as a friend. He didn't intend for the doctor to learn about his wound because he knew it would just open up a can of worms. His only hope was that Scott would avoid encountering the doctor in light of their apparent ill will. Something very serious must have set Scott off back on Founder's Day, but to still be harboring hostility towards Sam seemed strange to him. Johnny expected he'd find out what had transpired between the two men if he showed some patience. The problem was he didn't have much patience plus he didn't have a lot of time remaining in his visit.

Scott steered the buggy right up in front of the apothecary, which was situated on a side street next to the medical clinic. Johnny carefully extricated himself from the buggy and took a moment to look around while letting his hip and back recover from the ride. Despite the early hour, there were already several people seated on a bench in front of the doctor's, waiting to be seen. Scott nodded to them as he walked into the apothecary's shop and held the door open for Johnny.

"I'm comin'." Johnny could smell an unpleasant medicinal odor from out in the street. There was something about the smell of a druggist that bothered him and evoked less than pleasant memories. He'd had more than his share of encounters with various types of medical practitioners, most of them sawbones and not exactly what he would call highly skilled. But then Johnny realized he could also detect the aroma of tobacco so he moved forward to investigate. In the small display window, among the dark-colored bottles and show-cards advertising the apothecary's wares, was a variety of tobacco products.

Scott ushered Johnny inside, then they talked to the apothecary for several minutes. With some input from Johnny they put together the much-needed supplies for him, as well as some to restock the Lancer ranch's storeroom. When they were done, Johnny fell into conversation with the shopkeeper about the merits of various types of cigars and in no time he had arranged to sell the man a case of imported tobacco products. Johnny exited the shop with a big smile of satisfaction, but his good feelings didn't last long.

"Don't get in the buggy, Johnny. We have to go in here next." Scott indicated a sign in the window of the doctors' offices next door. "I see that Dr. Beauregard is in."

"How about I wait outside?"

"I'd like you to meet him. Just to say hello."

After looking with suspicion at his brother, Johnny reluctantly agreed to go along with him. Once inside, a blond nurse wearing a long white apron over her dark blue dress approached them. When Scott greeted her by name, she smiled pleasantly and asked them, in an Irish-tinted accent, to wait while she notified the doctor as to their presence. Johnny thought that if all nurses were so young and pretty he wouldn't mind getting sick or wounded now and then. Well, almost.

Dr. George Beauregard, as it turned out, was an agreeable man, and it was clear that he had a lot in common with Scott. Following some pleasantries and a little reminiscing about Boston, Scott said, "My brother here won't say anything to you, George, but he has a leg that needs attention."

Johnny stood stiffly and glared at Scott. "I bought what I need from the apothecary," he said stubbornly.

Ignoring Johnny's discomfort, Scott turned to the doctor and explained, "He's shy."

"And I'm allergic to pointy objects," Johnny added.

Dr. Beauregard nodded with understanding but opened the door to his examination room anyway. "We can just talk," he said persuasively.

Johnny glanced back at the few patients still waiting outside. "I wouldn't want to cut in front of anyone who's in real need of your services, Doc."

Beauregard laughed pleasantly. "Not a problem. They're waiting for Dr. Jenkins." He raised his hand in the direction of a short corridor with several closed doors, indicating that Sam was somewhere behind one of those doors. "Come in my office and we can talk in private. Come along. You're not scared of me, are you?"

Scott stood between Johnny and the exterior door, a patient look on his face. Johnny, outflanked, entered the doctor's room with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. Scott followed closely as if to ensure Johnny didn't bolt.

Once inside, Johnny removed his hat, turned on his older brother and hissed, "I ain't taking my clothes off, doctor or no doctor. You'd best remember that."

Scott leaned against the closed door, looking on as Dr. Beauregard sat casually on one corner of his desk and surveyed Johnny. "You look hale and hearty, Mr. Lancer. I hear you're in the importing business these days. What is it, wine?"

With some caution, Johnny replied, "Scotch whiskey and cigars mostly."

"You must enjoy sampling them, I'm sure." The doctor smiled understandingly.

"Some." Johnny looked beyond the doctor to the window. It was big enough that he could easily escape that way, if the need arose.

"Have you had any problems such as coughing or difficulty urinating?"

Johnny looked straight at the doctor with a deliberately blank expression. "Not at the same time."

Laughing, the doctor lightly clapped a hand on Johnny's shoulder. "I see your sense of humor is intact. That's the best medicine. Would you care for me to check your. . . was it your leg. . . before or after I talk over some business with Scott?"

"How about I just go and get myself some breakfast and leave you two Boston boys to talk?" Johnny sidled towards the door.

Scott crossed his arms over his chest. "How about you get this over with, brother?" He leaned forward, close to Johnny, and said in an undertone, "You know as well as I do that you need professional care of that wound. Don't waste the doctor's time."

"I ain't about to be suckered by the two of you," Johnny declared loudly.

"Johnny," Scott warned.

Becoming angry, and having had enough of Scott playing around at his expense, Johnny shook his head. "Nope. No way. Usted no puede forzarme. He tenido bastantes. Nunca confiaré en a doctoro! A excepción del Doctor Jenkins. I've had enough!"

There was a sharp rap on the door and it opened a few inches. Scott stepped out of the way and Dr. Sam Jenkins stuck his head in. "I thought I heard a ruckus in here and said to myself, it can't be those Lancer boys. Johnny's not in town, is he?" He pushed the door all the way open and surveyed the scene, giving the three men a stern look. "You're frightening the patients with all the shouting." He clasped Johnny's hand in a warm handshake. "Good to see you, son. Scott, you too."

Scott barely nodded then turned away to pick up a heavy medical book and flipped through the pages.

Dr. Jenkins asked Johnny, "How about we leave these Easterners to battle it out among themselves while we take a nip of some bourbon back in my office?" Dr. Beauregard mumbled something between an apology and a protest but Sam quelled him with a look. "You should both know better than to corner an angry gunfighter." Sam winked at Johnny and, with a hand at his back, urged him down the hall to his office.

Once safe in Sam's own office, Johnny sat on the only place available, which was, unfortunately, a leather-cushioned examination table. Suddenly feeling very hot, he removed his jacket, loosened his string tie and undid the top button of his shirt. "I tell you what, Sam, I'll make a bargain with you. You talk to me about Scott and I'll. . ." His voice trailed off.

The doctor handed Johnny a tumbler with a couple of fingers of bourbon in it, then sat back in his creaking wooden swivel chair and sipped at his own drink. "Fine Kentucky bourbon," he said appreciatively. "What makes you think you have something to bargain with, Johnny?"

"Maybe I don't, but I'll lay my cards on the table." Johnny only hesitated for a moment, then let out his concerns about his brother. "I heard you went nose to nose with Scott, and I know it ain't none of my business, but my brother isn't. . .well, he is not the same man he was just a couple of years ago. I know we're all gettin' older."

Johnny gave a small sideways smile and met the doctor's eyes. "Believe me, Sam, nobody knows that more than me, but there's something going on with Scott that just ain't right." He took a sip of the bourbon, even though he would have preferred a beer. Bowing his head, he said, "He's just real sad and it . . . it hurts to see him like this. It's as if he's given up. Yesterday, when he didn't know I was watching him, I saw him sitting all hunched up like he's got a pain deep inside." Johnny looked at the glass in his hand. "This can't only be about Jenny dyin'."

Sam took a moment to reply. "Son, what happened between your brother and me was an unfortunate misunderstanding. I can't tell you all that occurred, but suffice it to say that he was quite upset. Founder's Day was the anniversary of his wife's death, after all."

"I know, I know. But if I don't understand, how can I help him?"

The doctor was quiet for a moment and then said carefully, "Perhaps I can tell you, Johnny, that Scott was disillusioned with the medical profession as a whole, and with my performance in particular as regards to Jenny's death."

Johnny objected, "But you try harder than any doctor I've ever known, and I've known my fair share, Sam."

The doctor smiled his thanks but explained, "He was entitled to be upset, son. The circumstances surrounding her passing were definitely not as any of us would have wished. But the aftermath of our falling out was that Scott worked hard to bring improved medical services into this community. He did more than anyone around here ever accomplished in that regard."

"But he's not bein' what I'd call friendly with you, Doc."

"You need to ask Scott about this, Johnny. I'm sorry. . ."

Johnny was afraid he wasn't going to get any more out of the doctor about what had caused Scott to become an angry and changed man. "All right, but I've also seen him shy away from being around Teresa and Val. At first I thought maybe he was jealous or somethin' but it's like he can't stand to watch anyone bein' happy. And he won't even talk to you, Doc, and you haven't done anything to deserve that."

"If he still finds it difficult to face me, then allow him that one thing. He deserves some leeway in the matter. The loss of a wife. . .it is one of the worst things a man can go through. Simply, it will take him time, but I'm sure he'll recover." He leaned forward, patted Johnny on the knee and said kindly, "He's lucky to have you to watch over him."

Sam still hadn't shed any light on why Scott seemed to be avoiding his own family, so Johnny determined he'd have to face his brother if he wanted any answers. Shifting uncomfortably on his seat, Johnny said with regret, "But I can't stay at Lancer to keep an eye on him, Doc. Not much longer anyhow. I'm leaving in another week."

"No, I guess you can't be expected to stay on. Murdoch tells me your news, when he has any to impart." Sam stood and finished his bourbon. "Your father misses you terribly, you know." He smiled and went to a hand basin in the corner to rinse his glass, then washed his hands. "Not that he'll admit it. Murdoch is a stubborn man in many ways. Much like your brother, and that goes for you, too."

Johnny hopped off the examining table. "Well, it was good to see you, Doc. How about you coming out to supper at the ranch?"

"That would be pleasant." Dr. Jenkins faced Johnny and ordered, "Drop your drawers."

Eyes wide, Johnny halted, wondering if he'd heard the doctor right. "Drop my drawers?"

"Go ahead, young man." Sam scoffed, "You think I couldn't tell you're having trouble with your leg the moment I saw you? Or would you rather that I hand you back to Dr. Beauregard?"

"But I. . ." Johnny could see that it was no use. He couldn't avoid it any longer. "Oh, hell." He made short work of unbuttoning his pants and pulling them and his long johns down far enough for the doctor to take a peek at the bandaged wound on his hip. Sam lifted a corner of the dressing and made a noncommittal sound. "Hmmm."

There was something unsettling in his tone. Johnny asked, "It's not that bad, is it?"

"Sorry, son, but this needs a good cleansing. It's going to hurt like the dickens, but you should be used to that."

"That don't mean I gotta like it."

The doctor suggested, "You might as well take your shirt off so we don't get any blood on it." Sam watched with interest as Johnny unbuckled his shoulder holster and laid it aside. "Is that the rig you used last night when you shot down Hal Granger? Oh, don't look surprised. I was over that way in the small hours and saw his body. The deputy's body, too. . . poor young fellow."

"I don't regret killing Granger, Doc. He threatened folks. _My_ folks." Johnny shucked his boots, pants and long john bottoms. "Someone had better tell Scott I'm being held hostage in here or he'll think I took off." He got back up on the table wearing nothing but his socks.

"You sit there and I'll be right back."

Within a couple of minutes, Dr. Jenkins returned with Scott.

Johnny said caustically, "I wasn't expecting an audience."

Sam donned a pair of spectacles, pushed them down the bridge of his nose and looked over the glasses at his patient. "I can invite a nurse in here if you prefer."

Johnny crossed his bare arms and scowled.

"I thought not," Sam said.

"Why's he in here?" Johnny nodded towards his brother.

"He said he wanted to be here to support you," the doctor said.

Scott hung back and stood by the door, but Johnny could feel his eyes on him. He didn't really care if his brother wanted to waste his time watching the examination, but there was a tense air in the room and Johnny found it unnerving. Sam had probably asked him to be present in case he needed backup during the procedure. "I'm not runnin' for the door, okay?"

Scott's lips twitched in the beginning of a smile. "By the time the doctor's finished cleaning out that hole, I'll lay a bet you won't be running anywhere."

"Lean over on your side, Johnny," instructed the doctor. He removed the bandage and began to wipe away the ointment that Scott had applied that morning. "Good thing you brought him in here, Scott." The doctor spoke without looking at the blond man behind him. "This is more grave than I thought."

Scott said to Johnny, "I told you so." To the doctor, he unnecessarily pointed out, "Johnny is just plain stubborn about some things."

Hiding his smile at his brother's words that described all the Lancer men, Johnny briefly met the eyes of the doctor. What he saw in them made him serious again. His heart started beating faster and he began to sweat. Sam took care in treating the wound and reapplying a bandage, but it still hurt like hell.

"You can sit up now. Almost done." Sam pulled out his stethoscope and held it to Johnny's chest. He went through the usual routine of checking his patient's vitals, and all the time Johnny became more and more concerned. There was something in the doctor's demeanor that he, and even Scott, could sense, but whatever it was, it was not good news.

"Did you eat breakfast today, Johnny?" Sam concentrated on Johnny's pulse.

"No. Can you hear my stomach rumbling?"

"Mmm." The doctor gently touched Johnny's lower spine. "Hurt much down here?"

Unsettled that the doctor could tell that he'd been having twinges in his back, Johnny nodded. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes more than other times? Maybe after riding a distance, or. . . er. . .doing strenuous labor?" Sam was going to ask his patient if he felt pain in his back after engaging in sexual activities but spared him the embarrassment.

"I guess so."

"Any numbness or pain in your legs?"

Johnny wondered how the doctor knew so much. "Some," was the reluctant reply. Sam eyed him and waited for further explanation, so Johnny laid his hand on his left thigh. "Here. It's more numb than pain."

"It's been getting worse?"

"I thought you were only gonna to clean up my little bullet wound. It's over here on my right hip."

"I know, I know. Don't rush me, I'm just an old country doctor." Sam glanced over his shoulder at Scott as he spoke.

Scott changed his position and looked uncomfortable and Johnny knew that somehow Sam had struck a nerve with his comment.

The doctor's fingers probed a spot on his patient's lower back and suddenly Johnny felt a stab of excruciating pain. He yelped and almost fell off the table. Scott rushed to his side and held his shoulder, and while he was recovering Johnny blindly gripped at his brother's arm. After a ragged intake of air, Johnny opened his watering eyes and rubbed them. "What . . .what the hell was _that_ for?"

Appearing quite apologetic, Sam said, "I barely touched the muscle in the area where you appear to have an older scar from a bullet."

Scott took a look, frowning with interest at the round, puckered scar on Johnny's lower back. It was to the left side, not far from where Pardee's bullet had been removed several years earlier. "Another angry whore?" Scott asked.

Frowning over his shoulder at his brother, Johnny shifted on the table and retorted sourly, "No." Both of the men gazed at him and waited for an explanation. Johnny heaved a sigh. "A couple of years ago I had a bit of an argument with a Southern trader. Not a big deal. Just over prices, but he'd heard of my old reputation-."

"As averse to your new one?" Scott quipped.

Paying no heed to his brother, Johnny continued, "-and I guess he got scared I'd finish the argument with my gun, so he took a shot at me from behind. I just never had the bullet taken out." He looked square at the two men. "I expect I did lean on him a bit hard. But the bullet was only a small caliber."

The doctor laid a hand on Johnny's shoulder. "Johnny, It appears that little piece of lead you've been carrying around has taken a walk and is pressing on some nerves back there. Right now it isn't doing a lot of damage, but it's heading towards your spine, from the looks of things. It has to come out."

***–***TBC


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8 - LIFE'S LITTLE PROBLEMS

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown  
Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie  
Flat on this bed.  
~ John Donne 1631

"His spine?" Scott asked with grave concern. His eyes met Johnny's and he saw uncertainty and then fear in them.

"How'd you know there was still a piece of lead in my back?"

Sam took off his spectacles and pointed to an area near the small round scar for Scott's benefit as he told Johnny, "There's some significant discoloration to the right of the entry, and a slight lump under the surface. My opinion is that it should be excised."

"Excised," Johnny repeated. His mind was spinning.

"I'd like to do this today. Now, in fact. For once, I have some time free, what with these young doctors and nurses your brother has imported."

"How long would I be outta commission? I can't afford to be laid up."

"I can clean out your hip wound and sew it up properly as well as remove this bullet in a very short amount of time. It'll all be over within the hour and you can leave in, say two days."

Johnny thought it over and asked, "And if I you don't cut it out? What then?"

"Then you walk out of here and go about your life as usual, Johnny. Only thing is there is no guarantee that that bit of lead will stay where it is. It could move a little every time you use your muscles. If you're feeling its effects now, in your back and leg, I would say it's moving."

Johnny swallowed hard. "Worst case scenario?"

"If that bit of lead moves any more, you could suffer a great deal of pain. You'd need strong medication most of the time, I expect, just to diminish the pain, and you could be unable to do most activities. You could possibly have some weakness in your lower extremities. If it shifts any more to the right, it may damage your spine and that could cripple you."

Johnny took a while to reply. Frankly, he was shocked at the doctor's diagnosis and was more than a little afraid. "Well, Doc, that sounds pretty grim." He searched out Scott to see what his reaction was, and saw his own fear mirrored in his brother's eyes. Johnny asked his brother, "What do you think?"

Scott stepped up to Johnny and said, "It's your choice, brother."

With a swallow, Johnny replied, "Not much of a choice."

Reluctant to make the decision for Johnny, Scott replied, "Dr. Jenkins believes it's necessary." Johnny's eyes were fixed on him, waiting for a proper reply, so Scott added, "If it was me, I'd go for it, but you're the only one who can make this decision, Johnny."

"Then you'd best do whatever it is you have to do, Doc," Johnny said with a bravado he didn't feel. "But, I have one condition."

Dr. Jenkins said guardedly, "That depends."

"This remains between us for now." Johnny looked straight at Scott. "You, too. I don't want Murdoch or anyone told about it until it's over. I don't want the fuss they all make."

Scott asked, "Should I sign you in under an assumed name? Maybe Señor Corona?"

That brought a slight smile to Johnny's face. "You can tell Murdoch I stayed in town. Or went to Green River to see Val. Sorry, I shouldn't ask you to lie for me."

The doctor rummaged around in a cabinet and found a large nightshirt, which he dumped in Johnny's lap. "No time like the present. That's what I say. You know, son, you really should tell your father what you're facing." When Johnny made a curt motion with his head, Sam sighed and said, "All right, this is between us. One last thing. If you prefer," the doctor said with a surreptitious glance at Scott, "Dr. Beauregard can perform the surgery."

Scott surprised them all when he said emphatically, "No, you're the best for the job, Dr. Jenkins. Johnny trusts you." He held out his hand to Sam. "And so do I."

Johnny was settled in a small back room, awaiting the surgeon. His stomach was rumbling from more than just hunger. He lay on top of the bed, which was little more than a cot, feeling as exposed as his bare legs. Somehow, even though he had an ingrained dislike for nightshirts, he ended up wearing them anyway.

Scott was seated on a small chair by the window, apparently finding something very interesting to read in an old medical journal. He glanced over the top of the magazine whenever Johnny shifted on the creaking mattress.

Looking sideways at his brother, Johnny grumbled, "I came in here to get a scratch fixed up and next thing I know, they're plannin' on cutting me open to look for old lead." His complaint fell on deaf ears. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why he'd agreed to the operation.

Eventually Scott looked up and said sympathetically, "You know that Sam will do everything within his power to heal you, Johnny."

"You said that you trust him," Johnny replied with a hint of accusation.

"I do trust him, or I would have insisted that Dr. Beauregard do the surgery."

"But you. . ." Wondering if this was the right time to bring it up, Johnny played with a button on the front of his borrowed nightshirt. Scott was waiting for him to continue, so he said slowly, "It's just that I was under the impression that you and Sam were at odds over something. It's none of my business."

"No, it isn't," Scott responded curtly. He went back to reading, but after a few minutes, dropped the journal on the bedside table. "All right, I'll tell you, but this is between us."

Johnny nodded, surprised his direct question was eliciting as direct an answer. "Sure."

Scott took a deep breath and said, "My quarrel with Sam was about Jenny. When she died, you see. . . I blamed it on Sam. Blamed him not being there when she needed him, for making a misdiagnosis, for being overworked, for not being able to do his job. I called him an old country doctor." He was silent for a while, then rose to peer out the window at the quiet side street.

Sam _was_ an old country doctor, the kind who saw you from your birth through to your grave, if you didn't outlive him. Patients had always had the utmost trust in the man, and for a very good reason. The doctor had integrity, years of hard-earned experience and, above all, he was caring and compassionate.

Johnny asked, "Was he to blame?"

Scott turned and looked puzzled, as if he wondered why Johnny was there, but he recovered and said with difficulty, "No. He was not to blame."

Even if Scott said he didn't find any fault with the doctor's care of Jenny, he still seemed mighty prickly about him. Johnny said, "But you went out of your way to help bring in the new docs, and the nurses. Something must have prompted that."

"They were needed. There was no organization, no proper care in the entire county. Sam's practice was stretched to the breaking point, with too large a territory to cover and far too many people in need of his services."

"Scott, if Jenny died a year and a half ago, why did you have a fight with Sam last summer?"

Scott looked startled, then upset. "I can't. . . You can't possibly understand."

"Try me, brother." Johnny was a bit put out that his brother talked of trust yet felt he couldn't speak to him about whatever it was that was still bothering him. "If you don't let it out, it's just gonna eat away at you," Johnny encouraged. How many times had Murdoch or Scott said just that to him?

Scott sat down and held his head in his hands. For a moment Johnny was concerned that his brother was upset, but when Scott looked up his eyes were dry.

Once Scott started to speak, it was as if a flood had been released; his words poured out. "Jenny was sick for several days before she died. She said it was a woman's problem so I didn't press her about it. I slept in the other room, just as she asked, so I wouldn't disturb her, but I woke up that last night and heard her moaning. I could tell there was something very wrong with her."

Scott's voice dropped to a near whisper and he stared at his clasped hands. "I thought maybe it was her appendix, and we sent Cipriano for the doctor - for Sam. He didn't come for such a long time, but we did everything we could to make her comfortable." Scott's eyes rose to meet the blue ones of his brother, who had propped himself up on his elbow on the bed. "She was in so much pain." Scott was anguished over the memory of his sick wife. He swallowed and continued in a barely audible voice. "Sam wouldn't transport her to town, said she wouldn't make it. He shut himself in the bedroom with her and told us to stay out, everyone except for Maria. I wanted to be in there with her but Murdoch held me back. I thought Sam was going to operate on her, to fix whatever was wrong, but when he came out, a long time later, it was to tell us she wasn't going to live much longer and. . .to say our goodbyes. I went in and she was lying there, so pale, so small. . . and then she. . . she just died." He drew in a ragged breath and smiled sadly at Johnny. "She died and a part of me died with her."

"Oh, Scott," Johnny rose from the bed and reached out to embrace his older brother. Scott leaned into him, and Johnny did his best to comfort him, stroking and patting his back.

Then, after a couple of minutes, Scott pulled back and angrily wiped his face with his sleeve. "Sorry. I didn't want to. . . It's better not to remember it."

"No no, I'm glad you told me. It was a terrible time for you and I feel real bad I wasn't there. Why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

Scott shook his head. "I don't know. I haven't even talked about it to anyone before this. That wasn't the worst of it, though. It wasn't until later, a whole year afterwards, that I found out that she. . ." Shaking his head, at a loss for words, Scott turned away and leaned against the window, his eyes closing.

Johnny placed a hand on Scott's shoulder, but when he started to question him further, there was a sharp knock on the door. It opened and the nurse who had let them in a couple of hours earlier said briskly, "Doctor will be right in." She turned on her heel without waiting for a reply. Before the brothers could say anything to each other, Dr. Jenkins entered. "Time to begin. Johnny, step this way please. Scott, you can come in for a short while, until we're ready."

Johnny looked to his brother for the go-ahead, and Scott, who quickly collected himself, said, "I shouldn't have spoken of this. Not now, Johnny. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. We'll talk more, later, when I'm recuperating." He gave Scott an encouraging smile. "It'll be fine." If he wasn't so worried about himself, Johnny would have found it amusing that, just as he was about to go in for an operation that could possibly change his whole life for the worse, he was comforting his brother instead of the other way around.

The surgery was a new addition to the old building. It was clean and bright and looked nothing like most of the unsavory places in which Johnny had various bits of lead extracted or wounds sewn up. This should have been encouraging, but for some reason the cleanliness of the operating room and briskness of the staff sent a feeling of dread up his spine.

Scott sensed his brother's apprehension and tried to alleviate his fears by acting calmly and helping him climb up on the raised metal table in the center of the room. Johnny removed the nightshirt and pulled a sheet up to his waist.

Sam instructed, "Lie down on your back, please, young man." The doctor had changed into shirtsleeves and wore a long apron to protect his street clothes.

The blond nurse, who told them her name was Nurse O'Bannon, moved about doing last minute preparations, including putting a pillow under the patient's head. She checked the watch pinned to the front of her dress. "It's nearly eleven, Doctor."

It wasn't long before Sam was standing next to the table and looking down at his very nervous patient. "Let's not waste any more time." He indicated to the nurse to move a tray of medical instruments closer and he picked up a white conical device that Johnny recognized as a chloroform mask.

Johnny's gut clenched. "Wait!" He turned his head, seeking his brother. "Scott? Scott!"

Suddenly his hand was being grasped and his brother was by his side. "I'm here, Johnny. This is no time for you to back out."

Johnny wished he could back out but instead he said, "Just remember you're gonna tell me the rest of your story. . .about Jenny."

"All right," Scott replied. He glanced up at Dr. Jenkins. "Now's a good time to proceed, Doc, don't you think?" He retained his brother's hand but stood a little to one side to be out of Nurse O'Bannon's way.

The nurse opened a pot and spread a white ointment around the patient's nostrils. Some of it ended up on his mustache as well. She explained, "This is to protect you from chloroform burn. Nothing to worry about."

Johnny thought that was easy for her to say. He raised his head and looked straight at Sam. "Doc, you gotta promise me something."

"Johnny," warned Scott, concerned that his brother was seeking any reason to delay the operation.

"No, no, it's all right. What is it, Johnny?" the doctor asked patiently.

Johnny licked his lips. "Don't let anyone shave off my mustache, okay?"

Sam chuckled, then proceeded to lower the chloroform mask. "Everything will be fine, son. This will all be over in a very short while."

Despite his good intentions, at the last second Johnny struggled against the pungent chloroform. Scott and the nurse held him down, and as he lost consciousness Johnny heard the doctor saying, from very far away, "Turn him over and pass me that scalpel."

The whole room glowed with sunshine. So much so that the light hurt Johnny's eyes. He turned his head slightly on the pillow and a wave of nausea hit him. He moaned and raised his right hand to his head.

"Johnny? He's awake," someone said.

Squinting through bleary eyes, Johnny tried to discern who was in the room. A large shape loomed over his bed and he knew from the smell of tobacco and peppermints it was Sam Jenkins. He wondered why the doc was there, in his bedroom, but a moment later he realized he wasn't at Lancer after all. "Mmm," Johnny murmured and closed his eyes.

Scott asked, "Are you really awake this time? You sure gave us a scare."

"Us?" Johnny blinked to clear his eyes. He was in the small room he'd been in earlier, at the medical clinic. It was late afternoon, judging by the light. Sam came strolling in, carrying a tray covered with a cloth. Somehow, Johnny doubted that it was food. "I'm hungry," he said hopefully.

Scott was sitting at the bedside, a worried look on his face. "You sure took your time waking up."

Johnny asked, "A scare?" His brain seemed to have a time lag and wasn't functioning properly. "Wha' happened?" He looked up at the doctor. "You get the bullet out?" Of course he did, Johnny thought. Sam always did everything he said he would. A man of his word. All of a sudden, Johnny's eyes flew open. "You didn't tell Murdoch?"

Sam's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes, I got the bullet out. It was in three fragments, but they're all out." He uncovered the tray to expose some medical supplies then held the end of his stethoscope to Johnny's chest. He appeared satisfied after listening at several locations on Johnny's chest. "Experiencing much pain?"

As soon as the word pain was mentioned, Johnny realized that he did, indeed, have considerable pain. His hip was on fire, but that was nothing compared to his back. It felt just like a hot poker was being screwed into the flesh in the small of his back. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Back here." He moved his left hand to indicate where it hurt but that set off a whole other set of pains, all up his back and right through his shoulder. Flinching, he closed his eyes and waited for it to recede. It didn't. He felt ill and weak and confused and he had a bad feeling that something was not as it should be.

When Dr. Jenkins instructed the nurse to apply a tourniquet to his patient's arm, Johnny peered up at her. It was the same nurse, the blond girl, O'Bannon. Johnny saw the doctor approach with a syringe and he tried to get up and out of his way, which was a mistake. Immediately, the nurse and Scott held him down and told him to lie still. Maddened that he was weak and incapable of resisting, Johnny gritted his teeth against the sharp jab of the needle as it entered the flesh of his right arm.

Still angry, even as they released him, and as whatever was in the injection started to work, he glared at the nurse. It wasn't her fault but she was the closest to him and was the person most in focus. His eyelids grew too heavy to keep open and Johnny slipped into darkness.

When he next awoke, it was dark and his father was hovering over his bedside.

Damn, damn, damn. Scott went and told him. Can't trust my own brother.

"Johnny," Murdoch said, relieved. He pulled a chair close to the bed and held onto Johnny's left hand. His smile, although a bravura attempt at showing that all was well, did not fool Johnny. Not one bit. Johnny swallowed and tried to speak but his mouth was too dry. Murdoch found a tin cup and raised the patient's head just enough for him to sip some water. Johnny was terribly thirsty and wanted more, but the cup was removed. "Only a little at first," his father said.

Licking his lips, Johnny whispered, "Where's Scott?"

"He's gone out for something to eat. I insisted. He's thin as a rail." Murdoch managed a thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "He'll be back soon."

"Good, 'cause when he gets back I'm gonna kill him. He swore he wouldn't tell you."

Murdoch gave an understanding nod. "Scott didn't break his promise to you, son. The doctor did. Sam called me in. And good thing he did, too."

"Why? It wasn't anything. That's what Sam said and I'll be back at Lancer tomorrow." Johnny saw a look pass across his father's face and knew, just knew something wasn't right. Hell. Alarmed, he blurted, "Just tell me what's goin' on!"

"You're doing fine, son. The doctor will be in any minute and he'll tell you all about it." Murdoch put a hand on Johnny's chest to ensure he didn't attempt to rise, but Johnny was so weak his bones felt as though they were made of jelly. He wasn't going anywhere and they both knew it.

***–***TBC


	9. Chapter 9

_Once again, thanks to everyone who has PMd me or left comments. They get me thinking about writing a sequel..._

CHAPTER 9 - KILLING TIME

Doctors cut, burn, and torture the sick, and then demand of them an undeserved fee for such services.  
~ Heraclitus, c. 500 B.C.

Despite his confident demeanor, Sam Jenkins could do nothing but worry for the young man who lay in the narrow hospital bed. As soon as he had started delving into Johnny's back, he had known it was going to be far more involved than anticipated. Johnny was unaware of his plight and the difficult recovery he would very likely be facing. Murdoch Lancer was putting on a brave face, and Scott, who stood behind him, had apparently mastered the art of putting on a deceptive mask.

"Johnny," said the doctor, "the bullet in your back had fragmented into three parts. One was near the surface - the one I could feel. A second was deeper but small and was removed easily with a probe. The last one though, had moved perilously close to your spine." He faltered for the first time and took a breath, putting off the task of telling his patient the bad news.

Scott moved around his father to sit on Johnny's bed. He laid an encouraging hand on Johnny's arm, then exchanged glances with Murdoch and the doctor. Nobody spoke.

Johnny uttered, "If someone don't spit it out real soon I'm gonna get up and find out what's goin' on for myself." He saw a look of alarm pass over his brother's face and a niggling suspicion wormed its way to the surface. "Scott?" he whispered, "Tell me. . ."

The doctor laid a steady hand on Johnny's shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "I'm sorry, son, but there was a fragment lodged in your spine and when we. . .when I tried to remove it . . . I'm afraid there may be some paralysis."

/No, it can't be, it can't. . .he's wrong, he's lying./ Johnny stared at the doctor, waiting for him to refute his words, but even as he waited, he knew, just knew that Sam had revealed the truth. Johnny's eyes slid over to his father to seek some kind of assurance, but Murdoch had a look about him that was a mix of sadness and hopelessness. A glance up at Scott told him nothing.

Without a word, Johnny withdrew his hand from his brother's and flipped the blanket and sheet back to expose his legs. He was about as weak as he'd ever been, but he was able to lift his head enough to look down the length of his body. His legs were still there, sticking out from the hem of the nightshirt. They looked the same as always. He could feel them, or could he? He ran his hands across the top of his thighs. Yes, he could feel his relaxed muscles with his hands. But could his legs sense the palms that were touching them? "I can feel them," he insisted.

It was as if the three other men in the room had been holding their breath, only to let it out in unison. Johnny's right hand touched his hip wound, the one that had started all of this fuss, and a sharp pain shot through him. Without a doubt, the men witnessed that as well. Johnny smiled with satisfaction and let his head fall back on the pillow. "See? I told you I was all right." He was sweating and breathing hard, as if he'd run up a steep flight of stairs in a big hurry.

Murdoch asked what the others could not say aloud. "But Johnny, can you move your legs?"

"Sure I can." He lifted his head a bit and pain coursed down his neck and across his back.

Murdoch ran a supporting arm under his shoulders to ease the burden. "Take it slow, son."

For some reason, it seemed to require a monumental effort just to tell his legs to move. Johnny sent the signals, ordered them to shift, if only a little bit, just to prove he was fine. He tried again and again, and a grunt escaped his lips. His neck muscles were tense, his back burning, sweat pouring off his brow. . . and then he collapsed with a moan.

They didn't move. I can't move my legs. Oh my God why can't I move my legs why oh my God oh mi Dios! Me lisian, yo no puedo caminar!

"We have to inform his wife," Murdoch said with dread.

"Oh my God . . .I forgot about telling Natalie," said Scott. "I'll. . .I'll send a telegram. What should it say? How much should I tell her?"

"No." Johnny spoke as loudly as he could, but the word came out in a muffled croak.

Scott came close. "She has to know, Johnny. She'll want to be here, by your side."

Johnny closed his eyes for a moment, the opened them and appealed to his brother. "Don't. . . don't tell her." He swallowed. "She can't travel. Been sick. I don't want her to. . ."

Murdoch put a hand on Scott's shoulder and said he agreed with Johnny. For the moment. "We'll see how he is tomorrow and talk about this again."

Johnny could hear the two doctors, Sam and Dr. Beauregard, talking out in the hallway with Murdoch. Quarreling, more like it. It was late and the clinic was closed, but he was their guest of honor. Scott suggested they could take him home the next day, rig up a wagon with bedding, but his caretakers had said it would only make matters worse. How could anything be worse?

Murdoch came in to say good night. Scott would be staying, sleeping on a cot nearby. He wasn't to worry.

Beauregard tried to give Johnny an offensive-smelling medicinal drink, but the patient swatted it away and kicked up such a fuss the doctor gave in rather than force it on him. He finally went away. Sam checked Johnny over again, not that there was much of anything he could do, and he, too left for the night, although he instructed Scott to come up and wake him if anything changed.

Finally, only Scott remained. The pain became agony and Johnny suffered it for as long as he could. It hurt so much he almost wept from the exhaustion of fighting it, but if Scott saw his frailty, he gave no sign. When the constant pain grew unbearable, Johnny allowed Scott to give him the dose of medicine prescribed by the doctors.

As the medicine took over and the world became dull, Johnny's only remaining sense was his sight. It was as if his body had gone to sleep and left his eyes open. Scott was a dark shape, asleep upright in a chair close by. There was a lamp alight in the corner, the wick turned down low, and it cast menacing shadows on the ceiling. Johnny wondered if the rest of his life was going to consist of watching shadows moving slowly around his room. One thing was for certain: if that was to be the case he'd make damn sure that his life was going to be as short as possible.

The next morning, bright and early, Teresa came by with Val. Johnny's old friend had a hard time saying anything at all. He hovered with a gloomy look on his face, only occasionally remembering to appear optimistic. Teresa cried over Johnny, which almost made him cry right along with her. But she mopped up her tears and hugged him, and then sat and talked about everyday things until he fell asleep, his hand held in hers.

The routine of his care was both a comfort and a pain in the ass. The nurses - there were three of them on rotating schedules - were brisk and efficient and impersonal, which was fine by Johnny. If one could call aiding a bedridden patient with a bedpan impersonal.

But the nurses, all young women from the East, were too often in attendance when he wanted to be alone, and they asked him questions that he could not answer. 'How was he feeling?' became the most annoying of them all. He wasn't about to tell anyone, especially a woman, that he was feeling just about as bad as a man can feel. That he was not only in pain, but that his pain stemmed from frustration almost as much as physical trauma. That he was so afraid of what the future held that he wished he had no future at all. He knew it made no sense and that he was just feeling low because of what he'd been through, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. After only two days of being in the Spanish Wells clinic, Johnny had had enough.

He wanted to be in his own bed in his own home, with his family around him. "Murdoch," he announced in a small voice, "I want to go home."

The caring hand on his shoulder almost brought him to tears, as any sign of sympathy seemed to do, but he put that down to too many of Sam's potions.

Murdoch didn't argue. He simply replied, "I'll make the arrangements, son, but it will be too much of a journey for you at this point. You'll need to get stronger first. And Natalie, is she well enough now. . . will she be able to care for you?"

Johnny realized that his father thought he meant he was asking to go home to his own house in San Francisco, to be nursed by his wife. "No, I want to go home to Lancer," he said huskily.

His father consulted with the doctors, but Beauregard was adamant against moving the patient. Sam took the younger doctor aside, and within minutes they emerged from his office with Beauregard appearing properly chastised. Sam had the last word. "He may go home, but only with certain restrictions." Murdoch agreed to his terms and then accompanied Scott to arrange for comfortable transport for Johnny.

Sam went in to see Johnny and pulled the chair up close to his bed. He had closed the door behind him, a sign that he did not want them to be disturbed. "Johnny, this is a bit premature, you know. You really should rest up here and heal up more before travel of any kind. However," he said as he held up a hand, "I am trusting you to follow my directions."

"I will, Doc." His expectations raised, Johnny immediately felt better.

"You will have to let others do everything for you for at least a week. And I mean everything."

Johnny nodded. "I can do that."

"You will have to take the medicines I send home with you. If you don't take them, then you will end up back in here, and I know you won't like that."

"But they make me feel poorly, Doc."

"I know that, son, but your body needs time to recuperate and they keep you relaxed. If the muscles tense up too much, it will just lead to problems that I don't think you can tolerate right now."

"Doc?" Johnny played with the edge of the blanket as he asked, "Are you sure about this? That I won't be able to walk again?"

"Quite sure," Sam said as kindly as he could.

"Will I be able to do anything at all?" Johnny had a firm grasp of the situation but his mind refused the enormity of the whole thing. He couldn't picture it, couldn't face the changes it would bring to his life.

Dr. Jenkins pondered for a moment, then offered, "You should be able to sit upright. You have full use of your arms, of course, and regular exercise should keep your upper body hearty. You might regain some feeling in your lower extremities, but as far as expecting your legs to support you. . . No, not that." Sam watched Johnny's eyes; the small amount of hope the boy had been clinging to died in them, and the doctor knew that he'd remember that death for the rest of his life. To have caused such harm to anyone, particularly this young man, pained him beyond belief.

Johnny turned his head away and said through gritted teeth, "I guess I should thank you for being straight, Doc."

"I try to, Johnny, because you're my friend as well as my patient."

Johnny did not turn his head back, so Sam touched him briefly on the arm, then left.

They gave Johnny a massive injection of morphine and he remembered nothing of the journey back to Lancer the next morning. He awoke in his bed, just as he had wished for, but he felt groggy and sick and couldn't even speak to anyone until the following day.

Although Teresa and the children were still staying at the hacienda, they were due to leave. "Val will be working days again, and I need to get back home," she told Scott. "Unless you want me to remain and help out with Johnny's care."

Scott stood by Johnny's bed and replied, "We have everything under control. We're taking shifts and I've hired a couple of nurses for some of his care. And Cipriano will help me with any lifting."

More than anything, Johnny hated the way his suddenly miserable life had become the center of everyone else's existence. Scott didn't belong here, stuck inside tending to his every need. Cipriano should be out working the ranch, not moving around an invalid's limp body. He hoped that his wounds would heal fast and that he would be allowed to sit up as soon as the prescribed week was over and done with. Johnny almost laughed at the way his mind had accommodated to his situation. Here he was wondering if he would be allowed to do things, awaiting permission, when he was the kind of man who did things first and often dealt with the consequences afterwards. How fast things had changed.

Scott constructed a backboard that fitted on the bed. It had a slight slant so that Johnny, when lying on it, was not flat out. Not staring at the ceiling, Johnny thought. Although it was well padded, half-reclining put pressure on his lower back and after a couple of hours he'd had enough and was back to staring at the ceiling once again.

The last thing that Teresa did before leaving for her own home was to sit at Johnny's bedside and help him write a letter to Natalie. After an unsuccessful attempt to write while flat on his back, Johnny asked her for help. He hadn't wanted to write the letter, but if he didn't tell Natalie about his present situation, Scott would do it for him. Johnny did not want anyone else corresponding with his wife. It was his responsibility and he would just have to compose a letter to her in his own words.

Teresa sat with a pencil poised over the writing paper. It took Johnny a while to start the letter, but once he began to recite it, he knew what to say. "Natalie," he started.

Teresa was surprised at his lack of loving salutation but apart from raising her eyebrows she said nothing.

"I have had a slight injury." Johnny saw Teresa glance up disapprovingly but he continued, "My family is taking very good care of me."

She smiled.

Johnny thought for a moment then said, "Don't worry about my health. I am under the care of Dr. Jenkins and I will be fine. I hope that your health is improving. I will be in touch with you soon. I am dealing with the business from Lancer." He looked over at what Teresa had written so far. "That's all."

Teresa frowned as she finished writing down his words. "This is all you want to tell her?"

"Just write in my name. No, I can sign it, but hold the paper steady," Johnny ordered.

"You haven't told her you love her. Wives need to hear that, even if you've been married for a few years, Johnny."

His lips compressed with annoyance at being told how to write to his own wife. "Natalie knows how I feel about her. Just give it to me to sign." He scribbled his name on the proffered piece of paper and then closed his eyes with a deep sigh. How could such a small task wear him out?

A bit later Teresa came in with her two very active little children to bid Johnny goodbye, and when they had finally left he felt as though a tornado had blown through. There had been too many people looking at him and fussing and he was relieved to be alone. Unfortunately, any peace he'd been expecting was short-lived. Scott and a nurse, a tall, dark woman named Marybeth something entered with purpose in their eyes.

Johnny knew what they were up to and he wasn't about to give in easily. "Go away," he ordered in a voice that wasn't as robust as he had intended.

"Mr. Lancer," the nurse said with a smile, "we must turn you over and change the dressing."

Johnny didn't hear anything after that, what with anxiety rushing around in his mind and the pounding of his heart somehow causing temporary hearing loss.

It took Scott's firm grip on his arm to bring him back to earth. "Johnny, listen to me." Scott leaned over, his hands pressing down on the mattress. He spoke for only Johnny to hear. "Just take it slow and do what we tell you to do and you'll get through this fine."

Johnny nodded and closed his eyes, blocking out what was to come. It didn't help any when a needle was jammed in his inner arm, and even though the medication started working, it hadn't fully taken hold by the time they began to turn him onto his stomach. He gritted his teeth and endured the pain as well as the indignity of someone he didn't know manhandling him. Scott gave him directions; where to place his arms; not to move when they rolled him; to take deep breaths.

"Can't breathe," he mumbled. He blinked heavily at Scott, and his brother's face melted. The room was spinning and the light from the lamp they had just lit was burning his eyes. Finally, belly down, with his nightshirt hiked up, his backside exposed to the air, he gave up and went limp. Johnny could hear them speaking, one or the other giving orders to peel back the dressing, to swab the incision, but they sounded so far away. He didn't care about them at all, really, so long as he could just float along . . .

A couple of days later they cut back on the injections and Johnny felt a great deal better for it; his head cleared and the nausea the medicine caused all but disappeared. Although he still felt very weak, Johnny knew that too would pass. Dr. Beauregard sent over a vial of pills that he had ordered to be made up by the apothecary, and those took place of the morphine injections. Johnny didn't know exactly what they were, but he figured out they must be another form of opiate. Just one small pill made him woozy so he resisted taking them whenever possible.

Murdoch set it up so Johnny could shave, with some assistance. The older man stayed around the house all day, checking in on his son like clockwork, sitting near him and sometimes reading aloud. Shortly before the doctor came to check on his patient, Murdoch gave Johnny water and watched him swallow a pill. When Sam arrived, the two men rolled Johnny onto his belly and cut off the heavy bandage that was wrapped around his middle.

Johnny hid his face in the pillow to refrain from crying out. "Why's it hurt so much, Doc?" he gasped.

"Your nerve endings are waking up, which is a good sign. This won't take long," the doctor assured his patient. He peeled back the sticky tape that held a thick pad in place over the incision on Johnny's back, then hummed and hahed a bit.

"How does it look?" Murdoch asked, peering over the doctor's shoulder.

"I'd know better if you weren't blocking my light, Murdoch," Sam responded testily. He rummaged around in his black bag then pulled out a bottle and some cotton. Dabbing at the raw wound was enough to cause Johnny to groan, but Sam assured him it was coming along nicely. With assistance from Murdoch, the doctor re-bandaged the tender incision, had a look at Johnny's bullet wound on his hip, then said, "I think I've tormented you enough." To Murdoch, Sam said, "Turn him slowly, this way. He'll feel better lying on his back."

Surprisingly, Johnny found that Sam was correct. By the time the patient had answered all of the doctor's questions about his aches and pains and had his legs inspected, he was feeling surprisingly relaxed.

Sam looked pleased. "I think Dr. Beauregard's little pill is doing its job. He's a good man." He leaned over Johnny and said, "But we'll go easy on them, my boy. They're very strong." Sam saw Murdoch's questioning look, so he explained that Beauregard worked closely with the apothecary to formulate the medications they dispensed. "In the old days you'd have bitten down on some leather and endured the pain."

"Good thing times have changed," nodded Murdoch.

***–***TBC


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10 - FRAGMENTS

Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.  
~ John vi. 12

How long had it been since he'd been maimed by that damned bullet fragment? Time didn't matter when there were no landmarks. Even if there were, they meant nothing to him any more. Whether on his stomach or on his back, Johnny stared bleakly at a world gone terribly awry.

It was early morning, a few days after the operation, when Scott came in, accompanied by the nurse, Marybeth. She smiled at the patient in a kind way, but went about her duties efficiently, treating Johnny like just another body to assess, turn over, and re-bandage. Scott noted how uncomfortable Johnny was with her presence, so he told the nurse he would do the rest, that she could go. Although Marybeth pursed her lips and said that Dr. Jenkins wouldn't like it, Scott insisted, so she left Johnny's care to him.

Once she was gone, Scott brought Johnny a clean chamber pot and helped him to get ready for the day. Johnny said very little while Scott shaved him, cleaned him up and changed his nightshirt. It took some time, but when his younger brother was settled back in bed, Scott proceeded to straighten the room, putting some of the medical paraphernalia away in a drawer. Johnny watched him from behind half-closed lids, wondering if out of sight was out of mind.

There was a knock at the door and one of the kitchen girls appeared, bearing a tray of food and drinks. She looked curiously at the man in bed, but Scott took the tray, thanked her and quickly ushered her out. Johnny was glad; he did not like being an object of speculation.

Scott poured some tea and encouraged Johnny to drink some, then offered him a bowl of hot cereal for breakfast. While Johnny ate, the bowl perched on his stomach, Scott talked. "Back in Boston," he said, pulling a chair near the bed, "George Beauregard and I lived near each other, but it wasn't until after the war that I got to know him properly." Scott reached over to the tray and helped himself to a slice of toast. "I was home recovering and one day I saw smoke pouring out of a window in a house across the square. Of course, I thought I'd do the brave thing, even though I was in no shape to be running around. I rushed over, expecting to be putting out a fire, only to discover that George was in the middle of conducting a scientific experiment in his bedroom." Scott laughed at the memory. "He studied chemistry at the university, but became a doctor when the war broke out; he was always experimenting."

"If you believe so much in Doc Beauregard," Johnny suddenly asked, "why did you say that it was better for Sam to operate on me?"

"Beauregard is a fine surgeon," Scott replied cautiously. "But Sam Jenkins, even though old school, is more than capable." He hesitated, then added, "I knew that you needed me to show my approval of Sam because you'd seen my contention with him. You don't think that there would have been a different outcome if Beauregard had performed the operation, do you?" He looked at Johnny with concern.

"I'll tell you what I think. I think I never should have let anyone cut into me," Johnny said adamantly. "I think that the lead in my back would have stayed right where it was and never woulda bothered me."

Scott rose from his seat and objected, "Johnny, you can't second-guess the results of the operation. It won't help matters at all. Of course we all feel terrible this happened to you, but we have to move on from here. We have to concentrate on getting you better."

"We?" Johnny's voice raised as his anger escalated. "'We' are not lying in this bed. This is me, with legs that don't work any more! Only me! I should have followed my instinct and just picked up some more salve for my hip and got the hell out of there while the going was good." He pushed the bowl of half-eaten cereal away in disgust.

Scott was not surprised that Johnny was infuriated. On the contrary, he wondered why it had taken so long for his brother to become incensed. At least Johnny had finally decided to put up a fight rather than lie like a lump in bed, letting people take care of him. Calm in the face of his brother's anger, Scott took Johnny's bowl and placed it on the side table. "That wound on your hip was infected, and you know it."

Even though Johnny knew that he had needed a doctor's care, he wasn't about to say so aloud. He might have eventually gone in to talk to Sam on his own, but he didn't like that he was manipulated into seeing a doctor. "You steered me right into your Dr. Beauregard's office and you two ambushed me, Scott. You were planning that right from the get-go, weren't you?"

Scott stood his ground. "No, I didn't plan it, or not until I talked to Beauregard. Face it, Johnny, you could barely stand the ride into town, with your hip, and apparently your back, hurting you so much. When it was obvious you weren't going to do anything about it, I chose to ask the doctor to take a look at you."

Johnny raised his head and shoulders off the bed and shouted, "Well it was the wrong choice! Look at me, Scott! Look at me." He pulled the blanket and sheet away from his legs, exposing them. They looked the same as they always had, only looks were deceiving, he knew all too well. He grunted as he made a vain effort to move his dead limbs. There was no reaction, not even a twitch of a toe. After several attempts, exhausted and sweating, he gave up and fell back onto his pillows, his hands clenching his bedding in frustration. "You and your damned doctors!"

Scott moved to pull the covers back up, but Johnny struck out at him. "Come on, Johnny, don't," Scott pled. He caught one of the flailing arms, but when Johnny's other fist struck him hard enough on the chin to cause a surge of instinctive anger, Scott shouted back, "Johnny, calm down!"

Johnny glared at his brother with something in his eyes that was near hatred, then shook him off. "I'd rather be anywhere," Johnny said between clenched teeth, "than in this hell you stuck me in." He turned away and shut his eyes. "Get out."

Scott remained at the bedside for a minute, his face stiff, and then he slowly pulled the covers over his brother's chest. "You can blame me all you want, Johnny, but don't blame Sam. He did everything he could for you. You know the kind of man he is. How do you think he feels about what's happened to you?"

Turning his head only a little, Johnny spat, "You think I care how I got this way? That some old geezer who shouldn't call himself a doctor any more made a mistake? I don't! Right now all I care about is you leavin' me alone."

"All right, Johnny. All right," Scott said quietly and left.

Johnny lay there and thought about the choices he'd made and the 'what ifs' until it drove him nearly crazy. He never should have stepped over the threshold of the doctor's office. He should have known Scott would tell his doctor friend about his hip injury. He never should have let some old country doctor cut into him. He could have lived with the occasional twinge. So many should haves, regrets and no way of turning back time.

Johnny seethed and swore at Scott and at Sam, as well as at himself, but after a long while he calmed down a bit. It wasn't Scott's fault that the result of his good intentions had gone south. And he didn't really blame the doctor for his paralysis. He had always had the utmost trust in Dr. Jenkins, and the truth was the doc was one of the very few people in the world that Johnny felt comfortable confiding in. It just felt good to cast blame around. If there was one person he should hold accountable, it was himself.

In the first place, Johnny knew that he never should have turned his back on the man who had shot him - the Southern trader. And that man's violence had originated from his fear of Johnny - fear that the ex-gunfighter had used to his benefit now and then in business dealings. Johnny never threatened anyone outright, but he had sometimes used his past reputation to press a point. Well, that was one time it had really backfired. Now he had to live with the consequences.

Johnny threw his arm over his eyes and took deep breaths. He was so angry about his present situation, but everyone was being so compassionate and caring. They were happy to feed him and bathe him and do everything they could to keep him as pain-free and content as was humanly possible. It could be a lot worse, he reasoned. He told himself he could be all alone somewhere with no family, no home, no hope.

/ I won't fight them any more. I won't be mad. /

But he was.

Scott made himself scarce the rest of the day, and so it was Murdoch who kept Johnny company. Murdoch was attentive but not conspicuous. He read some chapters of a novel to his son, or just sat quietly reading a newspaper or writing letters on the table in the corner. When he needed to lift Johnny, he called Cipriano in, but otherwise they were alone. Also, on the doctor's instructions, Murdoch exercised the muscles of his son's legs three times a day.

Johnny knew it was futile, but if it gave the old man purpose, well, it wasn't hurting him. . .much. He felt an uncomfortable pressure up his back every time his father brought the leg up and gently pushed his knee towards his chest. With his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and his breathing under careful control, Johnny was able to keep his winces to a minimum.

"Is this too much for you, son?"

"No," Johnny gasped. He was drenched with sweat and was already feeling depleted after only ten minutes of the therapy.

Murdoch started in on the other leg. "Do you have any feeling in them?" he asked cautiously.

"No. It's sort of like they're asleep." He did have a slight amount of feeling in his thighs, mostly when his knees were brought up and towards his body. When he touched them with his hands, there was a dull sensation, as if there was a thick barrier between the two surfaces. He was aware of his lower limbs, and could feel pain in them, but he could not move them. They were dead and gone. "My back hurts some," was all he could say.

"Try moving your legs," Murdoch encouraged.

His father still clung to some hope of Johnny recovering, it was clear. Johnny, who had no such delusions, said irritably, "Maybe later." He saw the disappointment in his father's eyes, so he offered, "How about I try later on when the doc is here?"

Murdoch nodded with approval of the plan. When he finished the round of what Johnny privately referred to as the torture, the older man settled Johnny back under the covers. Murdoch said offhandedly, "I hope your brother didn't say something to upset you."

Startled, Johnny was slow to reply. "We don't see eye to eye." Murdoch looked worried, so Johnny asked in return, "Did you always agree with your brother when you were young?"

"Ah, no." Murdoch smiled ruefully. "But if we hadn't been at such odds, I wouldn't have left the old country and, as they say, the rest is history." His smile faded. "Scott has had a hard time since Jenny died. I think your coming here has helped him find some hope again. Awakened him."

Johnny did not say aloud what was in his mind: You mean seeing how hopeless my life has become has made Scott relieved that he's not the one in this bed? He unconsciously nodded in acknowledgment of his father's words, and held back any retort.

After hovering for a while, Murdoch, at Johnny's insistence, reluctantly left in order to deal with some of the never-ending ranch business.

In just the past several days, Murdoch had occasionally wavered when faced with a decision to make, but Scott had stepped right up each time. Johnny imagined that he could see his father aging from worry, yet Scott had apparently traded places with him to become the head of the household. It seemed incongruous that it had taken his crippling injury to kick his brother in the ass. Scott was coming back to life even as Johnny was embracing death as a viable alternative. Despite his dark mood, Johnny gave a small chuckle.

"I'm glad that you still have a sense of humor," Scott said as he entered with a tray in his hands. He saw Johnny's immediate suspicion and added, "It's only food." Soon he had raised Johnny using the backboard and handed him a bowl and a spoon. "Is stew all right for supper?"

Johnny shrugged and moved his spoon around in the stew to see what was in it: something brown, something orange, something green. He also was thinking of what to say, if anything, to his brother; he wasn't sure how to approach him. Scott was acting as if they'd never had a quarrel, but Johnny didn't like it hanging over them.

"It's safe. I didn't cook the stew," Scott said by way of explanation.

Tentatively, Johnny sampled the food. It was good, and he realized he hadn't had anything substantial to eat in several days. No wonder he was so weak; it wasn't only from blood loss from the operation. "Thanks," Johnny managed to say.

"You can thank Maria. She even said a little prayer over it," Scott said with a slight smile.

"I meant thanks for doing everything for me," Johnny said in between spoonfuls. "I know I've been difficult. I don't want to put anyone out."

Scott said casually, "You'd do as much for me."

Johnny played with his food for a minute. "I shouldn't have hit at you like that. Guess I'm not thinking straight. If it helps any, I got my punishment when Murdoch exercised my legs." He gave a short laugh.

"You're not being punished, Johnny."

"No, I know, but it's a waste of his time."

"I mean this isn't some sort of test from God or a punishment for past offenses."

Johnny nodded. "I knew what you meant. But, you see, my legs. . .they're gone and they're not coming back. I can tell." He ran a hand down his thigh and didn't look up. "I can't feel. . ."

Trying not to show his alarm, Scott asked, "You mean it's worse?" For a while Johnny didn't reply, but Scott waited with trepidation.

Finally the dark head nodded. "I can't feel anything up here now." Johnny's hand rested on the top of his thigh. "I could feel something before. Just a little, but not any more. It's creeping up." He turned his gaze to meet Scott's, his eyes full of apprehension. "I. . . I can't tell Murdoch."

"You'll tell Sam though." Scott's felt as if his heart was being constricted. No wonder Johnny had struck out at him; the fear and uncertainty must be crushing. "You have to trust him, Johnny."

Johnny nodded. "I do. Lets not talk about this, okay?" He sighed and went back to eating the stew, then sampled some crackers while he tried to find the right way to approach something else he'd been worrying about. "I was thinking, Scott, that maybe me staying here isn't going to work out." Scott objected, but Johnny said, "Now hear me out. I don't mean right away, and I know I have a way to go with healing and such, but I think I need to go. . .to go home." He dropped his eyes to the crumbs on his chest and started picking them up. "Home to San Francisco." He had to leave Lancer before he became too used to it, and his house in San Francisco was his only alternative; he had nowhere else to go.

After a long pause, Scott spoke. "Of course, if that's what you want, Johnny. Natalie will be there for you, and we can arrange for any assistance you need." He took in a breath and looked uneasily at his brother. "You know that there is an alternative. You can consider moving back to Lancer. Move everything here, your wife, your business." Scott was suddenly enthused with his idea. "We could set up an office here, and employ someone to do the legwork-." He stopped cold and looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, perhaps that was a bad choice of words."

"It's fine. I'm stuck with this and that's the sorry truth, Scott. I'd better face it sometime and so should you." Johnny took a deep breath and winced. He could feel the stitches pulling along the incision in his back if he inhaled too deeply, and the pain, although dull for the moment, was wearying. He put the bowl aside and said quietly, "I'll think on what you said. I need to rest now."

Later on, under the watchful supervision of the doctor, Johnny was supported into a sitting position. "Take it very slowly, Johnny. We're not out to impress anyone," Sam cautioned.

"Believe me, I'll be the one who's most impressed if I can sit up," Johnny responded with a touch of humor. Scott had an arm around his back and did most of the work at first, but once Johnny was half way up, he was emboldened to put his little-used back muscles to work. Finally he was sitting upright in bed, a pile of pillows behind his burning back, with beads of sweat on his brow and a grin on his face. "Guess this is some accomplishment, huh?"

Scott smiled back and nodded his approval. "Well done, brother." He was more than glad to see Johnny's face bearing a smile. God knows, he hadn't had much to be happy about, and as for his future, Scott knew that was going to be a very rocky road indeed.

Johnny turned to the doctor and asked plaintively, "Doc, does this mean we can do without the nurse? She's nice enough but. . ."

Laughing, Sam agreed, saying, "I think you have enough people here to meet all of your needs, Johnny. I've given your father instructions to continue exercising your leg muscles. You need to keep them limber, even if they're not functioning right now."

It didn't make any sense to Johnny, especially as their function was obviously not about to return. After sitting for a while, listening to Murdoch and Sam talk about the local news and cattle prices, Johnny was aching from his neck down to his rear end but wouldn't say so. Luckily, Murdoch saw the telltale signs of physical stress in his son, so both he and Scott slid Johnny back down to a flat position in his bed and Sam gave him some medication. When the patient said he didn't want anyone watching over him, Murdoch turned the lamp down and left him to rest while he and Scott went downstairs to have supper with the doctor.

Johnny was relieved when they were gone. He knew they only wanted the best for him, and he was glad he'd been able to sit up, but afterwards, alone in the dark, it sunk in how little he was going to be able to do on his own. Sure, the medication helped with the pain, but underneath its thick, narcotic haze, was the knowledge that even if the discomfort went away and the wounds healed, his body was never going to fully recover. Johnny had never envisioned living out his days in such a state.

Back when he was very young and still a green youth who just happened to have some skill with a gun, he had thought he was invincible, and when he had grown older he knew better but faced the reality of death head on. But to be like this, crippled, dependent, living less than half a life was untenable.

***–***TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks to all guests who have left comments - I can't reply directly if you're not signed in, but I appreciate them just the same!

CHAPTER 11 - TALES FROM THE PAST

Within me are two souls that pity each  
The other for the ends they seek, yet smile  
Forgiveness, as two friends that love the while  
The folly against which each feigns to preach.  
~ Arthur Sherburne Hardy

Before Sam left, he stuck his head in to see how Johnny was and to say good-bye. The room had been darkened and at first he thought his patient was asleep. Johnny laid on his back, unmoving, his head facing away from the door, but Sam soon realized he was awake and well aware of his presence. Sam advanced until he was close to Johnny's bed. He offered, "I know you may not believe me, or even want to hear this, son, but it will get better."

Johnny didn't turn his head to face the doctor. He said in a husky voice, "You don't have to lie, Doc. It's just not in the cards."

"I'm always straight with you, son. You'll find that once you're more mobile you'll get downstairs and then outside and your spirits will rise. Your world will expand beyond this room."

"Outside?" Johnny spoke of it as if it was a foreign land. He moved his head on the pillow to get a clear look at the doctor, but with the light from behind, all Johnny could make out was a silhouette.

"I'll bet that Scott can rig up a buggy for you to drive." The doctor was reaching a bit, but he knew the young man in his care desperately needed to see there was life beyond being an invalid. "Maybe even get you on horseback at some point. Find you something to do."

"To do? You mean like making baskets," Johnny asked bitterly, "like that blind old vaquero who sits in the plaza begging for a few pesos so he can buy tequila?"

Sam hardened his voice when he replied, "I mean doing something useful like working around this ranch. Taking some of the weight off your father and brother." He then said more softly, "You're a fighter, Johnny. Always have been, I can tell. This is one more fight you need to tough out, and I know it looks insurmountable." Sam reached out and squeezed Johnny's shoulder. "You may have to fight to get outside of these four walls, but I know you'll make it."

Johnny remained silent until Sam knew he wouldn't get anywhere and left for his own home. It was curious, Johnny thought, that Sam believed that this room had become his prison. It wasn't so. Not at all. He'd always loved everything about the grand hacienda. When he had first arrived and was given a room to call his own, it had been a sign of being accepted as one of the family. Everything was safe within these walls. He didn't want to escape them.

What was that old saying? That the four walls of a home symbolize the honor, hope, strength and courage of its occupants. Johnny lay alone in his dark room and was very much afraid that he no longer possessed any of those attributes.

Val came by to play checkers and to keep Johnny company, and Scott brought in some newspapers and a book to help him while away the hours, but for the most part Johnny slept. He couldn't face eating and as a result he lost weight. At night he turned on his side to ease the ache caused by long hours in bed, even if the doctor forbade it. He could get one elbow under himself and twist, pull a knee over with his hands, then with some difficulty lift his hips in order to lie on his side. The pain the action brought was worth it.

The furrow on his hip had almost healed up and Johnny could put his weight on it without any discomfort, but then he had hardly any feeling in that area any more. Naturally he thought about buckling his old gun belt around his hips but then he dropped back to earth when reality set in: he'd be spending the remainder of his time sitting. The gun would be useless in a belted holster, impossible to get at. There was always his shoulder holster, which he'd initially thought of as a temporary fix. He laughed at his own stupidity. He wouldn't need a gun - who would be gunning for a has-been pistolero stuck forever in a chair? Then he thought that maybe it would be a good thing if someone did come gunning for him. It would solve a lot of problems. Johnny sighed and turned over, thoroughly miserable.

The creeping paralysis didn't get any worse, which was a great relief. Johnny could feel tingles and jabs of pain in his legs now and then, but nothing he did would make them move. Once in the middle of the night he tried to get out of bed on his own, just to see if he could. He rolled to one side and got his feet on the floor, but the weight of his upper body was too much and he started to topple forward. Luckily he grabbed the headboard and saved himself, and was able to haul his legs back into the bed. He lay there sweating, his heart pounding in his ears, trembling from the experience and overwhelmed with concern about his future.

Johnny had only been home for a few weeks but it felt like it had been a year. At first he had been able to overcome his depression, but eventually, as he became used to the routine of being an invalid, and perhaps because he started to accept it, he felt very low in spirit.

When Sam came by, Johnny asked if he could get his advice on something. "But this is between us. That doctor and patient secret thing, right?"

Sam saw the seriousness of the conversation and inquired if he could sit on the edge of Johnny's bed. At the time, Johnny had thought it an unnecessary courtesy. Later on, when he dwelled on it, he figured that now that the bed he was confined to was his sole territory, the doctor was simply being respectful.

"Sam, I gotta talk to you about something but I don't want you to tell anyone about it."

"You can speak to me in confidence, Johnny."

"Yeah, well, the thing is, you see, I told Scott I should be going back to San Francisco, but I'm not sure that's going to work out. I was wonderin' if you could see to setting me up in one of those sanatoriums where they take care of people . . . well, people like me. And not around here, either."

Sam was taken aback but he recovered and explained, "Johnny, those places are usually for people with tuberculosis or for other illnesses. I don't think that it would suit you at all."

"I can't. . . you see," Johnny said slowly, picking his words with care, "I can't stay here and be a burden on my family, and I can not live in this condition with my wife."

"Johnny, I don't think you're giving your wife, or your family the credit they deserve. I'm sure that they could accommodate your needs, even if it takes some adjustment by all of you."

Johnny raised his voice, "I can't! I can't, don't you understand?" He looked away and ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry," he said in a quieter tone. "I won't be a burden to them. I ain't gonna do that to them."

After a minute, the doctor patted Johnny's hand and said, "I will look into it for you. I can ask some of my colleagues. Perhaps there is somewhere suitable near your home in San Francisco."

Nodding, Johnny thanked him and then looked away. He was afraid that the doctor didn't understand why he needed to find strangers to care for him. If Sam didn't come up with something soon, he'd have to find a place on his own.

Although he wasn't partial to attention from any member of the medical profession, Johnny liked and admired Sam as a man. He was a friend. Sam came by every day at first, but after a while the doctor said he'd come out to Lancer only now and then unless he was needed. Johnny hadn't seen him for a couple of days and already missed him.

Johnny was able to raise himself and he could sit up for a short time, but he still required some help to bathe and feed himself. And someone had to fetch whatever he needed.

Scott came in early to help Johnny wash and prepare for the day. He placed the washcloth, towel and a basin of warm water close enough for his brother to use, but didn't assist him in any overt way. Then Johnny wanted to shave, and although he started the job, he tired before he was halfway through. Scott, seeing the difficulty Johnny was having, took over and finished shaving him, careful to avoid trimming too close to the mustache.

"There," Scott said when Johnny had finished wiping the remainder of the shaving lather off his neck. "Bet you couldn't get as good a shave at the barbershop." Johnny thanked him and made an attempt at a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. Worried, Scott asked, "Are you all right? Do you need something for pain?" He glanced at a small bottle of pills that Dr. Beauregard had sent over. He picked it up and read the label. It indicated taking one by mouth every six hours and then gave dire warnings if more than two were ingested. Even though Johnny didn't reply, Scott poured a glass of water and put it in his brother's hand, then held out a single small pill. "This will take care of it."

Johnny obediently took the medicine, but when he had swallowed it, he muttered, "Nothing will take care of this. I can't live like this, Scott. You can't be hanging around taking care of me all the time, either." He raised his blue eyes to meet his brother's. "What am I going to do?"

Scott replied, "I don't have any easy answer, Johnny. Take it a day at a time? I'll do whatever it takes to help you. You know that. We all will." He looked away and said, almost to himself, "Nobody should ever suffer alone."

"I know I'm not alone, but. . . everyone's doing their best to help me, but I need to do things on my own. I've just let other people take over."

"You can do more for yourself when you're a bit stronger. Johnny; you just went through a big operation." He had left the operating room when Sam had begun cutting into Johnny's back, and had waited for what had felt like endless hours for it to be finished. Sam had called for Dr. Beauregard to assist, which had set Scott worrying even more. Eventually the doctors had emerged with dour looks on their faces and Scott had known to expect the worst. But now he turned his thoughts back to finding a way to help Johnny help himself. He offered, "Maybe you need to make landmarks so you have something tangible to reach for. You can't expect progress in only a few days."

"But I don't expect any progress."

"You're the one who said a man who's sure he knows anything is a. . ." He let the end of the sentence trail off. "Look, Sam might be wrong. He's been wrong before," Scott insisted.

Johnny looked intently at his brother. "You mean he was wrong about Jenny, don't you?"

Scott sat down on Johnny's bed, facing the room rather than his brother. At first he gave no response, just looked at nothing, but then his shoulders sagged and he confessed soberly, "I believed that Sam made an incorrect diagnosis with regards to my late wife. Yes, in a way he was wrong, but I later learned that he based that diagnosis on the lies Jenny had told him."

"But you're all right with Sam now, aren't you?" Johnny couldn't stomach the thought of the people he cared about quarreling or holding grudges.

Scott nodded his blond head. "I grieved for my wife for a year, and just when I thought I was past the worst of it, and starting to find the world a decent place once again, I found out something. . .something so terrible. . . I didn't know how to go on. You see," he said wretchedly, "Jenny killed herself. Oh, she didn't intend to, I know that now, but she-." Scott choked up and held a hand to his mouth to quell the emotion.

Scott drew in a breath and slowly turned on the bed to face Johnny directly. He called upon his inner strength and revealed the secret he'd tried so hard to hide - not just from others, but from himself as well. "Jenny went to a woman, someone who was known hereabouts as a midwife, though I wouldn't have called her as such. Jenny bought something from her. . .something she put in her tea. Whatever it was, it ate through her insides, poisoned her until both she and the child she was bearing died." He couldn't hold in his sorrow any more, and tears ran down his face unheeded. "Our child. Oh God, I never even knew she was having our baby."

Johnny struggled to sit up and wrapped his arms around Scott until he felt him lean into him. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Scott, I'm so sorry." No wonder his brother had changed so much, had become a mere shadow of his former self. To have a beloved woman die was bad enough - but to lose a child - like that, and at the same time. Johnny cast around for the right thing to say to his distraught brother, but in the end could only hold onto him.

Scott clung to Johnny and sobbed, releasing his pent-up anguish until there was no more to let out. After some time, he let go and turned away to bury his face in his hands.

Johnny lay back down but reached out to touch Scott's arm. "But why? Why would she. . .?"

Scott rose to his feet like a tired, old man, and went over to the washbasin to douse his face with water. He slowly dried himself off then returned to Johnny's bedside and sat, once more, on the mattress. His eyes were red and swollen. "Why?" He shook his head. "You know how I found all this out? It wasn't from Sam. Not at first. It was from the daughter of the woman who sold Jenny that unspeakable potion. This little girl of no more than ten, she came up to me at the Founder's Day picnic last year to tell me she was sorry my wife died. She showed me a pretty hair ribbon that Jenny had given her. When I asked who she was, she told me her mother was a midwife. I never even knew of the midwife's existence. I didn't understand it; Jenny wouldn't have had any business with her." Even now he sounded mystified.

Scott paused, remembering the past, then said, "I confronted the woman, right there at the picnic. She seemed to be hiding something, so I pressed her. Then she became scared of me and took off. I think that was when I got this feeling, this sinking feeling that. . .that something wasn't right. That's when I went to Sam's office to demand to know what had really caused my wife's death." He turned his eyes on Johnny. "The thing is I had been told she had a tumor and it had ruptured and that's why there was so much blood."

"Sam told you it was a tumor?" Johnny asked guardedly. It didn't seem like Sam to keep the truth from the husband of a dying patient.

Scott nodded. "That Jenny died of the blood loss. I knew that already, but the minute I started insisting to be told more details, I could see in Sam's face that he had been hiding something from me. He told me in the end. He said that he hadn't wanted to keep it from me, but Jenny had made him promise to keep her secret," he said indignantly. "A deathbed confession, one he had to keep to himself. I'm her husband, for God's sake!"

"But he broke his promise to her and told you everything."

Scott nodded.

Johnny watched Scott trying to hold back his emotions and failing. The blond head was averted, but Johnny placed one hand on his brother's shaking shoulder. He felt so bad for Scott, and he understood some of what he was going through, but he knew it wasn't a time for words, no matter how well-intended they may be. He waited, never letting go.

After a while, Scott regained his control and raised his eyes to seek those of his brother. "Sam informed me that when she was lying there dying, Jenny told him why she had tried to...to abort the baby. She grew up as an only child, you know, but when Jenny was in her teens, her mother had two children. They were both badly deformed at birth. Neither lived past a few weeks of age, and her mother said it was a family curse - that's what she told Sam. Jenny was apparently petrified that if she had any children they would be. . .She didn't want to have any babies like that and she didn't want me to know anything about it. She told him she wanted to spare me." He shook his head slowly from side to side in disbelief. "Spare me?"

"So when you heard this, you took it out on Sam," Johnny said with understanding.

Scott wiped his nose and took in a deep breath. "I had to blame someone. The woman, the midwife who gave her the abortion draught left the area, and Sam was a handy punching bag." Johnny looked at him in query, so Scott added, "Not literally, though I roughed him up a bit. I was quite distraught." He looked at his hands and twisted his wedding ring. "I would have preferred that Jenny had taken the risk. At least that's how I feel now." Scott took a deep breath. "Anyway, once I had time to really think about it all, I decided to do something to bring better medicine to the area, and Sam worked with me to make arrangements for doctors and the clinic."

Johnny knew that it had taken a lot for his brother to let down his guard and tell him everything. "Scott," he suggested kindly, "next time, how about you come and tell me what's going on instead of leaving me in the dark?"

"I will, promise. It's been really difficult trying to make sense of it all. But unless you've suffered the loss of a child, you couldn't know the emptiness and regret that's so. . .overwhelming."

Johnny knew enough about the loss of people he loved to last a lifetime, but this wasn't the time to bring any of that up. "Maybe not," he agreed.

***–***TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Note: Once again, thanks to everyone who left comments, including guests. I appreciate knowing that Lancer fans are reading my story.

CHAPTER 12 - LETTERS FROM HOME

'Tis of the essence of life here,  
Though we choose greatly, still to lack  
The lasting memory at all clear,  
That life has for us on the wrack  
Nothing but what we somehow chose;  
Thus are we wholly stripped of pride  
In the pain that has but one close,  
Bearing it crushed and mystified.  
~ Robert Frost

Scott said he was going to be out all day because he had to catch up with work around the ranch. He apologized and said he wouldn't go except he was way behind, but Johnny could see his brother was itching to be away from the hacienda. Away from the invalid. Who could blame him?

It was overcast and the house was very quiet. Johnny suspected that his father had fallen asleep in front of the fire down in the great room after lunch. At mid-day, Cipriano brought up some food and ate his meal with Johnny, then later helped the bed-bound man with his personal matters. The vaquero was such big a man he made lifting another man seem easy. His touch was both gentle and impersonal, and Johnny was grateful for that.

Johnny encouraged him to talk about Jelly, and heard the details about how the old ranch hand had selflessly tended the sick folks at the ranch during the influenza epidemic.

"The last sick person was getting better," Cipriano explained sadly. "And then, as if God decided to play a joke on all of us, Jelly came down with the influenza. We thought we were all out of danger. It was a very sad time, especially with the little children who were taken by God."

They talked for a little while longer, but then every subject they touched upon suddenly seemed fraught with awkwardness. How could Cipriano talk about breaking horses or riding when he could see with his own eyes that Johnny would never be able to ride a horse again? How could he talk about the cattle getting fat grazing up at Cooper's Canyon or how beautiful the wildflowers were along the Morro River to a young man who was trapped in his room? The stilted conversation paused and stuttered and stopped. As soon as he was no longer needed, the vaquero left.

Maria was supervising a couple of the girls who helped her in the house, and when they finished cleaning the bedrooms she came in to tidy up and to chat with Johnny for a bit. When the housekeeper was about to leave, Johnny stopped her. "Maria, one more thing. Can you locate my gun and shoulder holster? I haven't seen it since. . . Maybe Scott took it. And the gun-cleaning kit is over there, in the bottom drawer."

Maria found him the cleaning kit, oil and tools in a leather pouch, and then went to locate Johnny's gun for him. She returned some time later with the weapon in its holster. "It was on the bureau of Señor Scott, so here it is." She quickly handed over his rig, glad to be rid of it.

He pushed himself up to a near-sitting position. "Did anyone go to town and pick up the mail yet?"

Maria said she would go and see, but before she left she put some extra pillows behind Johnny. She patted his leg and smiled at him. She didn't mind mothering him at all.

Glad to have something to do, Johnny laid out the gun-cleaning kit on its oilcloth mat, removed the ammunition from his Colt and started to wipe down the barrel. At least he could occupy his hands for a while. He hadn't given his weapon a thorough cleaning since the night he had killed Hal Granger. Even if the gun hadn't been fired, he cleaned it on a regular basis, just to make sure everything was in prime working order.

People often viewed him as being unfeeling about the men he killed, Johnny knew, but that was far from the truth. He never regretted a justifiable killing, as Granger's had been, but he always felt bad about them just the same. There was nothing good to be found in taking a life. He'd learned that lesson early on. The memory of the recent shooting, like others in his past, was shoved to the back of his mind and didn't warrant being revisited. He had enough of his own troubles to think about, anyway, without worrying about dead folks.

It was only when Johnny finished cleaning and reloading his revolver that a wave of despondency washed over him. His mind kept returning to his prospects, or lack of them. He couldn't foresee any future for himself, try as he might. When Scott had suggested he move back to Lancer, to return to the place he would always think of as his real home, he'd felt an inkling of promise.

But after thinking it over, Johnny decided he couldn't bear becoming any more of an encumbrance to his family. Even if he could somehow get around a little, he would still require assistance for his most basic of needs - for the rest of his life. There was no way he wanted to be a dead weight and even if Scott and Murdoch assured him otherwise, it would get tiresome real fast. They would soon become resentful and he wouldn't blame them a bit.

Having Natalie care for him was not an option, yet the thought of living, or merely existing, in a sanatorium for invalids was such a frightening alternative, Johnny's heart pounded just thinking about it. He didn't want to live like that, couldn't, but he could see no other solution.

Maria returned, huffing and puffing from taking the stairs, and Johnny was reminded that she was getting on in years. Not that she looked it with her sparkling eyes and still-dark hair. "Here is mail for you, Johnny. One of the boys just brought it from town." She handed Johnny two large, heavy envelopes and one smaller one. She smiled broadly at the young man, believing correctly that the small letter was from his wife.

When Johnny didn't immediately open it, Maria was disappointed. "You'll be happy to reunite with your esposa soon, I know. A lovely girl. Well, I go downstairs now, Johnny. Your father is out to the barn but I told him I would take good care of you. Now I will have a siesta in the kitchen but if you want anything, you shout." She went out and left the door open a crack.

Once Maria was gone, Johnny turned his attention to the envelopes sitting on his lap. He knew the return address on the top one. It was from Levi Leeds, his business manager. Johnny had recently offered the man a partnership and he had hoped he would accept it. They had only been working together for the past year, but Johnny had found Leeds to be a good asset to the company. He was talented and organized and had a good feeling for the customers' needs. The business had been expanding at a rapid rate and Johnny had been talking to Leeds about opening a New Orleans office and warehouse for the imported goods. He had decided a couple of months back that he would need someone's help with the expansion, but now there didn't seem to be much point.

Johnny read the correspondence from Leeds and found man was enthusiastic about the partnership. For the first time in days, Johnny momentarily forgot about his health problems, but as soon as his hopes rose, they were dashed when reality reared its ugly head once again. Who was he kidding? It would take an active, whole and healthy man to run his business, and he was none of those.

Johnny sighed as he opened and then dumped out the contents of the other big envelope. It was some of his business mail, forwarded to him at his request by his secretary, an older and rather stodgy man called Mr. French. Nothing appeared to be urgent, so he put it all aside with disinterest.

The smaller envelope sat on the blanket, just waiting for Johnny to pick it up. He held it to his nose, expecting to find the scent of Natalie's perfume, but none remained. Reluctantly, he tore it open. She had written a long letter and Johnny read it slowly. He was only partway through when his back started aching. When he was finished, he slumped back on the bed and felt his spirit drain out of him. All thoughts of his company's expansion were banished and once again his outlook seemed impenetrably bleak. He swore at himself for being so defenseless that a few well-placed words from his wife could hit him so hard.

To make matters worse, what had been an annoying back pain quickly escalated. If he remained perfectly still, and took shallow breaths, Johnny was able to tolerate it. It was not emanating from the place where the doctor had dug for the bullet fragments, but seemed to cascade up his entire spine, deep in his backbone. It was unlike anything he'd experienced before and it worried him. Johnny lay there unmoving for some time, but it was severe and persistent; he knew he needed something to take the edge off or else he'd go crazy.

Getting weak in your old age, boy. You've had worse. Put up with it. If you complain they'll start you up on that morphine again and you know you don't want that to become a habit.

As Johnny worked at controlling his breathing, concentrating, trying to quell the pain in his back, he wondered how Scott had managed to keep what he had discovered about Jenny to himself. Secrets tended to eat away at a man, that was for sure. Look at how the strain of knowing his wife had poisoned herself and her unborn child had taken its toll on Scott.

Most likely, Scott would always question if he could have saved his wife. . .if he'd only known Jenny's fears and the lengths she had been willing go to in order to prevent having a deformed child. Imagine the guilt he must be carrying around, weighing heavily on his soul, knowing he had missed seeing his own wife's torment.

Johnny now knew why his brother had acted distant around Teresa and the children. God, how can Scott look at them and not feel intense regret? He had missed his chance with Jenny and may never find such joy. Johnny hoped, with all his heart, that his brother would be able to start over, to find a loving woman and have those children he deserved.

A wave of agony hit Johnny, and he gasped and gripped his bedding. He was scared about having a lifetime of pain, but then a surge of anger washed over him and he shoved the gun cleaning kit, still at his side, off his bed. It fell onto the floor with a clatter but he didn't care. The sudden movement set off a whole new set of jabbing sensations and a groan escaped his lips, partly from aggravation. At least there was nobody around to hear him. He damned life for throwing such impossible hurdles in front of him and Scott.

Johnny swore for a bit, then called for Maria, but she must have been out of earshot - there was no response. The occasional sound of men working outdoors drifted up, even though his windows were closed. Johnny yelled again but there was only silence. He was alone in the big house and nobody was going to come to his rescue. If truly desperate, there was always his revolver. It was sitting between his legs, secure in its leather holster. He thought of shooting a round off to attract attention, but the thought of everyone coming running, although almost comic, was an unwelcome solution. All the same, he pulled his revolver out of the holster and up onto his lap, where he could feel its comforting weight.

He was thirsty, so with great effort, Johnny leaned over and reached for a glass of water left on the bedside table. He drank most of it and was about to put the glass back on the table when he saw the little dark brown bottle of pills sitting there. After looking at it for quite a while, he picked up the bottle. The label indicated to take one. There were four tablets remaining. Johnny took all of them.

The medication Johnny had taken started to have an effect on him. He rubbed his eyes when they became bleary, but it didn't help much. The good thing was the pain had started to recede. The room was swimming and his head was feeling thick so he lay back on the inclined bed, one hand preventing his gun from slipping off his lap. With the paralysis creeping up from his legs to his thighs, he knew what was next: hips, then abdomen. Knowing that it could eventually reach his chest, fear coursed through him. Dios, I don't want to lie here, slowly suffocating.

He ran his fingers over the smooth metal of the Colt and remembered when he had bought it. There had been something about it that had just seemed right when he first checked its balance in his hand. Over the years he'd come to rely upon it, like a friend, in both good times and bad. It had been expensive, though not the priciest gun he'd ever owned, but value was a tenuous concept. His skill with the weapon had been his ticket to a freedom that no amount of money could buy, when he was barely more than a child.

Freedom had always been something Johnny had greatly valued. When he had married Natalie, and set off with her, he had proven he was not bound to Lancer. He had been free to leave and to make his own way in the world. Johnny thought of the few short years he had spent at Lancer as a way station to the rest of his life. There he had learned about family and values and the mechanics of running a large enterprise. His cigar business, which had initially been only a sideline, had grown into a moneymaker; although he reveled in its success, he was not bound to it. In the course of every stage of his life he had learned something of value to take along to the next one. But this, the paralyzing of his limbs, had put a full stop on his whole existence. There was nowhere left to go.

Scott had once asked him if he was just going to spend his life killing time, among other things. From that moment on, Johnny had tried hard to find a worthier purpose to his life than providing the protection of his gun to the highest bidder. He'd turned around and committed himself to the Lancer ranch and to his newfound family, and had worked hard at walking the line. It had lasted quite a while, until he'd known in his gut that it was time to move on. But now Johnny could see no purpose in the next stage of his life. Scott had expected his brother to be dead before he was thirty. Well, that birth date was coming up real soon and maybe Scott was likely to be proven correct, once again.

Scott's confession about the death of his wife weighed heavily on Johnny's mind. He couldn't stop picturing Jenny and the unborn child dying so tragically. His thoughts turned to Tallie, who had changed into Natalie, and hurled him into a tailspin he had never recovered from. What had become of that girl, who had once loved him for himself?

Picking up his gun with both hands, Johnny held the cool barrel against his cheek. He was tired, so very tired. He closed his eyes and found himself praying, the words spilling out, his eyelids suddenly smarting with held-back tears. He just needed guidance, some sign that would show him the way.

Is this the end of the road? Is this all there is left for me? Gripping the gun as if it was a talisman, Johnny's lips moved with whispered pleas. "Dios, me hace fuerte. Give me strength."

"You have plenty of strength, Johnny."

Johnny turned his head on the pillow, wondering if he was hearing things. A murky shape came forward and turned out to be Val. Now what the hell was he doing here? Johnny groaned, "Go away. Just go, Val."

"I can't do that, Johnny. Not with the way you're hangin' onto that pistol there." Val sidled over warily, then stopped several feet away from Johnny's bedside.

Looking slowly from his Colt, still gripped in his hands, and back to the lawman, Johnny realized why Val was looking so fearful. "I'm fine. You should go."

"Now I don't think I can rightly do that. How about you point that thing in another direction?"

The sheriff took a tentative step forward, but Johnny did something he never thought he'd do in his lifetime. He raised his gun to point it at his friend. His hand wasn't steady and neither was his voice when he rasped, "Go. . .go 'way. Now, I. . . I mean it!"

Val hoisted his hands in capitulation, then reluctantly back-stepped his way out the door. Johnny's shoulders sank back into his bedding and he rolled to one side. He wrapped his arms around his head, still gripping the gun in one hand. Rocking with an agony that had nothing to do with physical pain, Johnny moaned. Dios, what am I doing? Tell me what to do.

There was a rush of footsteps and next thing Scott came in, halting just inside the bedroom. With a glance back to someone just out of sight in the hall, he said in a low voice, "I'll take care of this. It's all right. We'll be fine." Scott then stepped inside and closed the door firmly behind him. "Johnny?"

"Go away!" was the muffled response.

"I can't do that." There was silence for a minute, then Scott said, "Look, the sun's coming out. How about I open the windows and we get some fresh air in here?" Without waiting for consent, he walked purposefully across the room, pulled the curtains out of the way and flung the window open wide. "That's better than hanging around in the dark."

Johnny turned onto his back and drew in an irregular breath. The Colt was still in his hand, resting on his chest with the barrel directed towards his jaw. He held his weapon loosely, as if he wasn't paying attention to where it was pointing. When he tried to speak and found the words wouldn't come out, Johnny concentrated and spoke slowly. "I want to be left alone."

Scott's heart was in his mouth, seeing that the barrel was pointed directly at Johnny's head. If he accidentally pulled the trigger. . . Scott sat gingerly on the edge of the chair by Johnny's bed and nonchalantly gathered up the letters that were strewn across the blanket.

Johnny reached for his mail with his free hand, as if alarmed that Scott would read the letters.

"I was just moving them, Johnny. How about we talk?" Scott watched as Johnny's eyelids slowly drooped, then saw how the blue eyes widened as he shook himself awake. Scott realized that his brother was struggling to overcome the narcotic effects of his medication. He reached over to look at the container of pills and removed the cork from the small bottle. "How many of these did you take?"

"Dunno," Johnny mumbled in a slurred voice. "Not enough. I'm done, anyway. There's nothin' left."

Scott was pretty sure there had been four or less remaining, because he had made a mental note to replenish the medication the next time he was in town. He damned Johnny for taking the pills so recklessly. With careful control of his expression, Scott took a deep breath and said evenly, "It's not the end of the world, Johnny."

"Maybe not for you. You've got everything ya need here."

"Have I?" Scott replaced the empty bottle on the bedside table. "Johnny, can you put that gun back in its holster?" He picked up the leather shoulder holster and gently placed it on Johnny's stomach. "I can't talk to you with that pointing at your face." He held his breath waiting, watching Johnny's face for any telltale sign he was going to do something stupid.

Johnny blinked a couple of times as he thought about his choices.

"Johnny, put that gun back in its holster," Scott said firmly. He was surprised his voice wasn't shaking.

Johnny held his gun close, clinging to it like a lifeline. His mind was working so slow that thinking at all was a great effort, but all of a sudden, as he looked into Scott's eyes he saw things clearly. He obeyed his brother. "All right." He slipped the revolver into the holster then carelessly shoved it out of the way, down by his knees.

Scott let out the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. He had to bite his tongue to refrain from telling Johnny what an idiot he was, and instead asked, "You have any idea how many times I wanted to drink down a whole bottle of scotch, or do worse, after Jenny died?"

"But you didn't."

"Well, yes I did. I drank most of an old bottle of rum one night. Got sick as a dog. I did some other pretty dumb things that I'd rather forget, too."

"Does Murdoch know 'bout wha' happened to her?" He hoped the old man didn't know. It was sure to break him.

"He knows some of it, and may have guessed the rest. I encountered him that night I was drunk, after having it out with Sam, and I'm afraid I said too much. He never speaks of it, but I think he knows." He looked at Johnny, who was struggling to remain awake. "Maybe," Scott said, "If I hadn't been so sure that proper medical procedures would fix everything, I wouldn't have pushed you into having that operation on your back. I'm sorry, Johnny."

With a great deal of effort, Johnny was able to say, "Nobody's to blame." He touched his hip with fumbling fingers. "This. . . needed Sam's touch."

"Maybe next time you'll jump the other way when a whore takes a pot shot at you," Scott said with a slight smile. He watched his brother submit to the medication he'd taken and knew he'd have to get hold of the doctor to see what steps they needed to take. Scott just hoped that when the wounded man awoke he was going to be over his self-destructive mood. Standing, he looked down at Johnny's face, seeing the lines of pain ease as he dropped off into sleep. The letters, crushed and in disarray, slipped from his lax fingers and fell onto the floor.

But Scott was surprised when Johnny spoke again. It was a mumble, almost too slurred to discern.

"Was. . . Natalie. . .she shot me."

***–***TBC


	13. Chapter 13

Note: Thanks to the guests who have left comments. I can't reply directly to you but I appreciate you leaving FB.  
To the guest who mentioned Poldark: I remember that show! I wonder if Elizabeth's death in Poldark influenced my story. Hmmm…could be…  
To Gail - I am posting a chapter just about daily. I'm glad you're enjoying it.

CHAPTER 13 - SOLUTIONS

Where there is no hope, there can be no endeavor.  
~ Samuel Johnson 1752

As soon as Johnny passed out, Scott opened the door to let Murdoch and Val in. He told them in a hushed tone about the disaster that had just been averted, playing down Johnny's mishandling of his revolver but neglecting to mention his brother's final admission that Natalie shot him. Scott then ran out to the bunkhouse and sent a fast rider to locate Dr. Jenkins.

Murdoch shook Johnny, trying to rouse him from the deep sleep he had fallen into, but it was apparent that Johnny wasn't about to awake for some time. Every breath he took was slow and shallow; his face was pale in contrast to his dark hair.

How many times had he hovered over Johnny's bed in the past, often believing it would be the last time he would do so? Yet Johnny led a charmed life, and so far had survived each subsequent injury and recovered as if nothing had even happened.

Murdoch looked down at his son, at tendrils of hair clinging to his damp forehead, at the bluish circles under his closed eyes, and at the creases that were etched between his brows even as he slept. Johnny's face was shadowed with a day-old beard that merged with the mustache he was so inordinately proud of. Further down, under the bedclothes, was the outline of Johnny's body - the useless legs a reminder of all the things he could no longer do.

But it wasn't that Murdoch was looking at a damaged and broken man so much as seeking the youth who had first arrived at Lancer some years earlier. Where had that defiant spark and enthusiasm for life gone, he wondered. Had all of the hard knocks finally beaten him down? Had he succumbed to the fear of living with a life of limitations? No, it wasn't possible that Johnny would just give up. Murdoch sighed and tucked the blanket in around his sleeping boy.

As soon as one of the men had saddled up and was on his way to find the doctor, Scott returned to check on his brother. When he saw that his father had drawn a chair up to Johnny's bedside and had settled in, Scott went downstairs to the kitchen to join Val. They ate some supper while they waited for the doctor to come. At least with three doctors in the area, there was a chance that one of them would be available.

But Scott couldn't stomach much food, and all he and Val could do was exchange uncomfortable glances, neither one fully understanding what had occurred or why, nor knowing what they could do to help Johnny. Right after Scott convinced Val to go home, having assured him that they'd send word if there was any change, the doctor arrived on horseback. It was not Sam after all, but Charles Irving, the doctor who was sharing the burden of doing rounds with the older physician.

Dr. Irving, a slim man who rivaled Scott in height, was sandy-haired with freckles splattered across the bridge of his long nose. He was as brisk in manner as Dr. Jenkins was soothing, but Scott had already learned not to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

After a cursory overview of the unconscious young man, Dr. Irving picked up the empty pill bottle. He hadn't gotten along with Dr. Beauregard since the day he'd met him, and disagreed with the physician's free use of narcotics. Giving a bed-ridden patient a steady dose of morphine was, in Irving's opinion, irresponsible, and this kind of overdose was all too common. It made him quite angry. He kept his back to the relatives of the patient as he schooled his emotions.

"I believe he took four," Scott volunteered.

Irving muttered something under his breath then pivoted to face Murdoch and Scott. "My esteemed colleague, Dr. Beauregard, is a bit heavy-handed when prescribing medications, and the ingestion of quadruple the dosage is something I am somewhat concerned about."

Murdoch stood and spoke with barely controlled anger. "Somewhat concerned?"

"Mr. Lancer," the doctor said, deferring to the older man. "The good news is that right now your son seems to be merely sleeping heavily. Even so, I recommend an antidote to counter the narcotic effects, just to be sure he doesn't slip deeper into its grip."

Scott stepped forward. He had, after all, recruited Irving, and had dealings with him in the past. "What do you intend to use as an antidote?"

For a minute, it appeared that Dr. Irving was affronted at being questioned by Scott, but when the blond man didn't back down from his stare, the doctor replied, "A stimulant by way of injection would be my first choice. It has its drawbacks, and can over-accelerate the heart. Or I can give him an elixir of my own making. . ."

His face reddening, Murdoch said, "Let me tell you, Dr, Irving, that is my son lying there, and he's in this condition because you doctors think nothing of passing out dangerous medications as if they were sugar pills. That is my boy, and if you think for one minute I'm about to let you-." Scott took hold of his father's arm, but Murdoch shook him off. "No, Scott, I won't have some potion given to Johnny."

Scott stared at his father, thinking of Jenny and the drink she had taken - the one that had killed her. But this was not some midwife with unclean practices and dangerous herbal remedies. This was modern medicine, based on science. He looked into his father's eyes and saw a pain in them that gave him a feeling that the old man knew full well what had really happened to Jenny. Without taking his eyes off his father, Scott said firmly to the doctor, "My brother doesn't like needles." He then turned to Dr. Irving. "No needles. No potions."

Irving's gaze slid over to Johnny's unconscious form and then warily back to Scott. "Perhaps some smelling salts first, to see how he reacts?"

Scott glanced at his father, and then nodded his approval. Both he and Murdoch watched closely as a small vial was uncorked and wafted back and forth under Johnny's nose. At first there was no sign of any reaction, but suddenly Johnny inhaled, spluttered and coughed and tried to turn his head away. Dr. Irving continued moving the pungent-smelling vial back and forth until it roused Johnny enough to elicit a groan and for his eyelids to flutter. He then took a deep breath, shifted and went back to sleep.

"He should be fine," said Dr. Irving. "I'll leave this with you, sir." He corked the smelling salts and gave them to Murdoch. The Lancer men thanked him for coming out, and Scott saw the doctor to the kitchen for some coffee, then finally on his way.

After a brief discussion, they agreed that Murdoch would remain in Johnny's room, just in case. Scott turned in early, emotionally exhausted. It was only once he was in bed that Scott realized he hadn't told his father what Johnny had said about being shot by his wife, but he figured he'd wait to hear the rest of the story before disclosing anything to Murdoch, if at all.

Johnny slept through much of the next day. The following morning, although he finally awoke and appeared to have come to his senses, Scott had no chance to talk to his brother alone. It seemed that as soon as one person left Johnny's bedroom, another would arrive. Teresa was in attendance, and was bright and positive despite the early hour. She had left her children with Bettina back home so she could give Johnny her undivided attention, she said. Val would come along later, after work. Scott realized that Murdoch had enlisted Val and Teresa to keep a very close eye on the invalid. It looked like the only secrets in their family were the ones buried very deep.

Upon reflection, Scott wished that he hadn't been so open with his brother about Jenny's death. It wasn't that he wanted to hide the truth from Johnny, but he was afraid that it might add to his depression. And Scott very much wanted to know if the words his brother had allowed to slip past his lips as he lost consciousness had been the ramblings of a drugged man. He had a bad feeling it was the truth.

What could have made Natalie pick up a gun and use it against her husband? Johnny would never harm any woman - that he was sure of. No doubt that something was going on between Johnny and his wife. Look at how he never said anything about her unless asked, and even then no more than was required. Thinking back, Scott remembered snippets of conversations that should have made him see there was something wrong with the picture. Now he'd wait until they were alone and he'd get the truth out of Johnny, for once and for all.

Scott brought breakfast up for Johnny, who didn't appear to be suffering much from his overdose. The patient gave him a wan smile but apart from saying he still felt a bit woozy, he didn't complain of any pain. Johnny was placid and simply accepted help to be raised so he could eat. It seemed to Scott that his brother appeared to have forgotten everything that had occurred only two days earlier.

Scott was out most of the day, supervising a team of workers who were cutting timber on the far side of the east ridge. When he got home at sunset, he was surprised to find Val playing cards with Johnny at a table in the guest room upstairs. There were cushions behind Johnny's back and more at the sides of the armchair, helping to support him.

"Just to give Johnny a change of scenery," explained Val. The two friends were joking around and sharing a drink of scotch, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. For some reason, it annoyed Scott greatly that only a couple of days before his brother had been suicidal and here he was, apparently in fine fettle. Val had even cajoled Johnny into donning a shirt and pants, even though the shirt was worn loose and he didn't have socks on his feet.

Johnny appeared able to sit up, which was a very good sign, but Scott could see how much effort it was taking his brother to project normalcy. "You two seem to be having a good time," Scott said as he picked up the bottle of scotch that Val had half-hidden under his chair. He raised an eyebrow. "Not that this is supposed to be on Johnny's menu."

Val looked Johnny over, weighing him up. "Aw, he's doing fine, Scott. A little nip won't hurt him."

Indeed, Johnny looked almost normal, seated at the table with his bare feet placed neatly on the carpet. He even had some color back in his face, and he had shaved, although the mustache remained. There were signs of recent illness, though, especially in the lines near his mouth. Johnny smiled tentatively at Scott and the lines temporarily disappeared, but then the smile wavered and he dropped his gaze to the playing cards in his hands.

Trying not to sound like he was questioning Johnny's ability, Scott asked, "You sure you're okay, Johnny?"

For an instant Johnny looked at him with anger, but then he shrugged and shifted in his seat. Johnny couldn't disguise the pain it caused him, but he said truthfully, "I'm just glad I _can_ sit up, brother. I need to do this."

Scott studied Johnny for a long moment and then nodded. "It's good that you're out of bed. I'm glad." At that point he was pretty sure that his brother _did_ recall how low he had sunk, how close he had come to hurting himself. If moving ahead, putting the past behind him was how Johnny wanted to handle things, then who was Scott to interfere? Deciding to act as if everything was back to normal, Scott asked casually, "You fellows want something to eat? Johnny looks like he could use a steak. How about some real food?"

Val, never one to turn down a meal, nodded, but Johnny's face took on look of reticence. "I can't go. . . I ain't going downstairs." He shuffled the cards and didn't look up.

"We can eat up here," Val suggested. He looked from one brother to the other. Scott wasn't taking his eyes off Johnny. He wanted to have time with him alone, Val could see plainly. He cleared his throat and said, "I'll go down and bring some grub up here then. Bet Maria has somethin' spicy on the cooker."

"Wait. . . " Johnny tossed the pack of cards on the tabletop. "I want to. . .can you help me back to my room?" He avoided Scott's gaze. "I'm kinda tired." He hated having to ask to be returned to his room like a sack of potatoes, but he didn't want to be carried downstairs, either. Not just yet. He wasn't ready to make an appearance down there.

Val and Scott positioned themselves on either side of Johnny, and each of them got an arm around his waist, making sure to avoid touching his lower back. After Johnny had slung his arms around their shoulders, they lifted him and linked hands under his legs, making a seat on which to carry him. With a few grunts and some close calls with a door or two, the three men managed to get to Johnny's bedside. Johnny's arms slipped from around their necks and he eased himself into the center of the bed without any assistance.

Whatever had caused that excruciating pain a couple of days ago had gone as suddenly as it had appeared. Johnny fervently hoped it was never going to come back. The area that Sam had cut into in order to extract the bullet fragments was tender, and there was an ache in his back muscles, but not in his spine. Right now he felt exhausted but the pain wasn't bad at all, all things considering.

Johnny thanked God and didn't question the workings of it all. Scott kept looking at him like he wanted to say something, but Johnny wasn't looking forward to the lecture that he was certain was due to come his way any time.

Val sensed some tension between the brothers and chuckled awkwardly. "Getting you back in here was a bit like wrassling with a monkey. I'd better be goin', or the little woman'll be checking me out for the scent of another woman's perfume."

"Thanks, Val," Johnny said. "Maybe we can finish the game another time. And don't forget to take the bottle of scotch with you."

"Sure thing. Be over with Teresa tomorrow, most likely." With a raised hand and a smile, Val took off.

Without being asked, Scott lifted Johnny's legs and swung them over and onto the bedding. "Do you want a blanket over your legs?"

Johnny nodded and watched his brother fuss a bit, getting the blanket tucked around his useless legs. The effects of the pills he'd taken had finally worn off, and he felt better than he had in some time. Not great, but better. For now that was enough. Ingesting four of those pills at once had been a bad miscalculation, and Johnny had a feeling he was lucky to have awoken at all, but it was what had preceded it that was going to be difficult to explain. He wasn't sure that even he knew why he'd picked up his gun. Johnny could see that Scott was champing at the bit, wanting to say something, but his brother held his peace.

After a few minutes, Johnny figured he might as well start the conversation just to get it over with. "I guess I was sorta out of it a couple of days back. Good thing Val came along."

Although it was too early for his brother to retire, Scott moved to the dresser and pulled out Johnny's nightshirt.

Johnny cleared his throat. "Val says he came over to fetch Teresa's sewing stuff that she left behind and that's why he came up here. . ." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Guess I'm lucky to have him for a friend." When Scott didn't reply, Johnny put his head on one side and asked, "Are you mad at me or something?"

Dropping the nightshirt on Johnny's lap, Scott stood with his arms crossed. He was angry but he bit his tongue. He knew that once he lit into his brother, there would be no stopping him and the last thing either of them needed was to fight with each other. "Now why would I be mad at you, Johnny?"

Johnny leaned back and surveyed Scott's unforgiving expression but then he dropped his gaze. "It could be because I was a damn fool and took too many of those pills there." He motioned to his night table, but the pill bottle had been removed. "And maybe because I was . . .cleaning my gun and. . ." The gun cleaning kit was on the bureau, he'd noticed. He suddenly realized his holster and his letters were missing and leaned to one side to see if they'd ended up on the carpet.

"Johnny, you'll fall out! What are you looking for?"

"Where'd they go?" Johnny demanded.

Scott moved around the bed but there was nothing on the floor. "I put your gun over there," he said, indicating the bureau on the far side of the room where the holstered gun sat with its leather straps wrapped around it. "If it's okay with you," Scott said in a tone that made it clear he wasn't really asking permission, "I'm going to keep it out of your reach." He waited for an argument.

But Johnny was more concerned about the location of his correspondence than his Colt. He tried to open the drawer of the night table, but it was awkward from the position he was in.

Scott impatiently brushed him away and opened the drawer. He asked, "Is this what you're looking for?" When he pulled out a bunch of letters, Johnny quickly reached out to take them. Scott found the behavior strange and very unlike his brother.

Johnny looked through the envelopes to make sure nothing was missing, then tucked them in the bedding by his side. When he saw that Scott was eyeing him curiously, Johnny flushed and said, "Private stuff, that's all. And I'd like my gun a bit closer."

Scott frowned and glanced at the gun, but didn't move to fetch it.

"I'm not gonna use it on myself, Scott," Johnny said sardonically. He knew he never would have crossed that threshold, but it was apparent that Scott believed he had intended to turn his gun on himself. Well, he had fleetingly thought about it, but that was back then, when he was under the influence of the medicine and a dark depression. This was a new day. Not much better an outlook, but at least he had a clearer head. Scott wasn't going to give an inch, he could see. "Look, brother, you can trust me. I seem to recall I wasn't feeling too good that night but I'm better now. I'm fine."

"Trust you?" Scott scoffed, "You know, Johnny, you think that saying you're fine makes everything all right again. As if nothing ever happened."

"All right, all right, I admit it, I was wrong to help myself to those pills, but I was hurting and. . . I needed, Hell, I needed something to take the edge off. I was cleaning my gun, is all. Honest." He shrugged a little and gave a smile.

"You nod your head and smile and say all the right things," Scott said angrily, "but then you turn around and do exactly what you want to do. And damn the consequences! Val saw you with your gun to your head, Johnny. And then you pointed it at Val when he came in to help you! You can't deny it!"

Unable to face how close to death he'd been the night before, Johnny did indeed deny his intentions. He reasoned, "It wasn't planned. I'd never hurt Val. He knows that, and as far as seeing me holding a gun to my own head, well, he's used to seeing too many off-the-wall characters in his line of work. Whatever he thinks he saw, he was wrong. I'd never do something like that. Now lay off me, will you?"

"You don't remember that I came in here and found you hanging onto that gun like it was your only remaining friend? I saw you, too." Although Scott had not intended to light into his brother, once he started, he couldn't stop. "You have to think, Johnny. Think about what your actions would have meant to your father. How would he have felt if you'd killed yourself, and under his own roof? He'd have found some way to blame himself, that's for sure. How could you even contemplate bringing such a burden down on this family?"

"Because I am a burden!" Johnny yelled back, "I've been nothing but trouble since the first day I came here all those years ago. Isn't that what you mean? And now you're saddled with me, you'll all have to fetch and carry for me the rest of my life? No. No! I'm not as all-out selfish as you're making me to be, Scott. You won't have to worry about me being around much longer."

***–***TBC


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14 - HOPE

Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour  
Fear no clouds will always lour. (lower)  
~Robert Burns 1793

"What the hell does that mean? You're not going to-."

"I'm not doing anything under this roof, anyways! I'm making other arrangements, that's all I mean. I already talked to Sam about him finding me a place in one of those sanatoriums."

That stopped Scott in his tracks. "You what? For God's sake, Johnny, why would you. . . ?" He sat down heavily in the bedside chair, baffled. "Why would you choose to have strangers care for you?"

His flare of temper abated, Johnny replied tiredly, It's better that way."

"Better for whom?"

"Look," Johnny said defensively, "it's all arranged so there's no point in going over it, all right?"

"No it is definitely not all right." Scott stared fixedly at Johnny as if he didn't know him.

"Sometimes people just have to make their own choices, Scott. You can't force me to see this from your point of view. Until you're lying here, in a bed with your legs as dead as logs, you have no right, no right to tell me what I can and cannot do!"

"You're still part of this family, Johnny."

"Am I?" Johnny inhaled deeply then added curtly, "Look, I'm willing to give it a try, to learn how to get around, how to take care of myself. But I cannot do that under your watchful eye. I'm sorry, but I need to be cared for by someone who doesn't give a damn about me, someone who doesn't pity me."

"I don't pity you, brother." Scott was aware that he did feel sorry for Johnny, as much as he would for anyone in the same wretched situation. "I know that you can overcome this, or at least accommodate the way you live so you can get some control back in your life. I don't pity you, Johnny. I really don't, but I'm sorry this ever happened to you. Can you see the difference?"

Johnny made a dismissive motion with his shoulder. "I can see the way people look at me. Take Cipriano. Today he couldn't even meet my eyes because he was afraid to make me envious of him going up to Cooper Canyon. I know what I'm missing, believe me I know, but having people pity me is killing me, Scott!"

"The solution is not to run away from it all." Scott shook his head adamantly. "You're going to stay here until you're able to take care of yourself, and that's final. If I have to get you declared incompetent and pull some strings to get a court order to prevent the doctor from moving you away from here, I will do so!"

Johnny was astounded and angry that Scott could even think he could override his wishes like that. "Damn it, who do you think you are to take away my right to make my own choices? You didn't give Jenny any choice, either did you? Did you ever think that maybe she had good reason to keep her troubles all to herself? She took the situation in her own hands because she knew you would make her do what _you_ want and not necessarily what was right for her."

Scott felt like he'd been delivered a physical blow. After a few moments of silence, he recovered and raised his voice in reply. "Don't you bring Jenny into this! She never gave me, or our child a chance! I'm dictating what you should do because you're obviously emotionally distraught. You tried to kill yourself with pills and a bullet just the other night! How can you expect us to give any weight to anything you say when you're not seeing this with a clear head? You're not making the right decisions!"

"The right decisions?" Johnny sat up in bed, his arms rigid and muscles straining as they supported his upper body. "You're making these decisions that are right for _you_, not for me. You're just gonna run right over me, aren't you? Well if you think that's what's gonna happen, you're gonna have one hell of a fight on your hands, brother! I ain't going easy!"

The two brothers glared at each other, but after a minute Johnny's flushed, angry face changed. His lips twitched, then smiled, and finally a snort escaped.

"What is so amusing?" Scott crossed his arms over his chest, finding no humor in the situation.

Johnny was still laughing. "I think this is the place in our argument that I usually storm out and head for the door." He indicated his legs and shrugged. "I guess that puts an end to that bad habit of mine," he said carelessly.

Scott couldn't help smiling in response and he relaxed, but his humor faded fast. He took a breath and said seriously, "I know I would have listened to my wife, if she had only confided in me. But Johnny," he reasoned, "she didn't know if the baby would come out deformed. My Jenny was beautiful. Think about it. . .what if her own mother had decided it was too much of a risk to bring her into this world? Jenny would never have even existed. My wife never gave me or that baby a chance."

"I don't know, Scott, I don't know, but someone has to make the choice and take that risk."

Scott said earnestly, "Then take a risk, Johnny. I would like you to stay here at Lancer, and I know Murdoch would, too. You need to talk this over with Natalie. She liked staying here before you were married, even if it was only for a short time. I'm sure she would-."

Johnny gave a half-hearted laugh and dropped his head forward. Slowly he looked up and smiled ruefully at Scott. "I don't think so." No, his wife had no interest in living in the country, especially not on a cattle ranch. She had made that more than clear on the several occasions he had suggested they could move closer to his family's home. "She won't live at Lancer. She's real adamant about that. I'm not even going to ask her."

At that point, Scott thought of his brother's last words before he had fallen into a drugged asleep on the previous evening. He took a chance and asked, "Are you afraid she's going to shoot you on sight again?" When Johnny's head shot up in alarm, Scott knew he'd struck a nerve.

"What?" Johnny's eyes darted around in an effort to remember what he could have said for Scott to pose such a question. He couldn't remember mentioning anything about Natalie, and in fact he was certain he had been careful not to, so he stalled. "I told you it was a business deal gone wrong," he said referring to the bullet that Sam had removed from his back. He shifted his position and lay back on the inclined bed. /Hell, what did I say about her to Scott? About us?/

For a moment Scott wondered if he heard Johnny wrong - after all, he had been heavily drugged and was mumbling at the time. But then he saw his brother picking at the hem of the blanket and knew, just knew that he was hiding something. Sitting down on Johnny's bed, Scott determined to get to the bottom of it. Like Johnny had pointed out, he wasn't running anywhere; Scott had a captive audience. He started slowly and pointed towards Johnny's hip. "I was talking about the bullet wound on your hip. The one that made you go in to see Sam in the first place." There was no reply. Scott continued, asking, "Did she shoot your holster right off you? You must feel lucky it didn't go a few inches the other way."

"Damn right I was lucky," Johnny agreed. He was sweating but didn't wipe his brow for fear it would point attention to his nervousness. "I must have been talking crazy from those pills."

Scott narrowed his eyes. "You've never told Natalie that you can't walk, have you?"

Johnny swallowed and gave a curt shake of his head. "I can't."

"You have to talk your situation over with your wife so that you can decide on your future together." Johnny began to interrupt, but Scott overrode him, saying, "Johnny, I'm a prime example of a man who failed to communicate with his wife and you could learn from my mistake." He said despondently, "But if Jenny had truly loved, trusted and understood me, she would have told me, right at the beginning, about her fear about having a child, and not kept it a secret."

"She did love you, Scott, I saw you two together, and it was obvious," Johnny protested, anxious that his brother didn't look at his marriage as a failure. Jenny had seemed like the perfect wife, and they had adored each other, and had always got along. But then he and Natalie had once been like that, too.

Scott leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. "Right now I don't feel that way. She never gave me any hint that she was reluctant to have children. Never." He asked sadly, "Why didn't she trust me?"

"I don't know, Scott. Some people don't even trust themselves. If Jenny didn't believe in herself she probably couldn't imagine anyone else understanding her, no matter how close she was to them."

"Jenny was so looking forward to going to the Founder's Day dance. She even had her dress all ready." Scott smiled a little at the memory. "She kept bringing it out and looking at it, trying it on. I thought she was being a little vain, you know?" He halted and hung his head. "But now I see that she was afraid it wasn't going to fit at the waist. She wanted to hide her pregnancy from everyone, including me."

Scott rested his head in his hands, unable to withstand the sadness that overwhelmed him whenever he remembered Jenny's face. "I can't see her happy any more. I can only see her lying on her bed, almost gone, so pale. She said my name," he said in a voice so low it was barely audible. "Did I tell you that? She said my name as she died." Scott felt his brother's hand touch his hair, a stroke so full of compassion that it drove him to tears. "How can I tell you what to do when I can't even contend with my own troubles?"

Johnny's arm went around his brother and he just held him. "It'll be all right. I know we keep telling each other that, but if we mean it, and work at this together, I know we can make it. You had three good years with her, didn't you? Yes, and you loved her and you did everything you could for her. That counts for a lot." His eyes stung as he thought of the pretty young woman who had been his brother's bride, how sweet she had been, so very kind. And then he thought of Jenny's funeral, and how he and Natalie had come back to Lancer together to see Scott's wife buried. Nearly a year after that, Murdoch and Scott had come to visit them in San Francisco, and Johnny had been torn between showing off his and Natalie's newly built house and feeling exceedingly sorry for his widowed brother.

Johnny managed to say in a shaky voice, "You have to forgive her, Scott."

"I'm trying. God's truth, I am trying so hard." He sniffed and averted his face.

"I guess," Johnny said, "neither of us are doing too well dealing with our problems, but I tell you what. From now on we'll make double sure we're there for each other."

Scott raised his head to look at Johnny. He backhanded his eyes to clear them. "You mean you'll reconsider about remaining here?"

There was so much hope in Scott's eyes and Johnny didn't want to hurt him any more, so he gave in a little. "I'll think about it some more, but whatever I settle on, you have to stick with it. Deal?" He held out his hand and after a couple of seconds, Scott shook it, nodding in agreement.

Scott poured himself a glass of water, wandered over to the window, then eventually meandered back to the bedside. "There's still one thing we need to clear up, Johnny." Scott decided to ask the question that was bothering him, once more. "A couple of nights ago, when you were under the influence of that medication. . ."

Johnny looked sheepish and held up a hand. "Don't worry, I won't do that again-."

"No, you won't, but I didn't mean that. When you were dropping off to sleep, you said that it was Natalie who shot you along your hip. Explain that to me." Watching Johnny's face was an interesting experience when he was cornered and could find no way out. Scott saw a surge of alarm change to wariness and right away it was as if the man behind the face had literally shut the doors on the enemy. There was no emotion to be seen. None at all. There was a blank façade covering something that Johnny did not want anyone on the outside to view.

But Scott had seen the process before and this time he planned to batter at it until he broke Johnny down. He leaned over to grip Johnny's shoulders in both of his hands, driving the bedridden man onto the mattress. Leaning close, Scott said between his teeth, "It's no good. You can't hide in there, Johnny. Not from me."

For a moment, Johnny's temper overruled his sense of control. He brought both of his arms up, striking his brother's hands away, and followed up with a shove on Scott's chest. "Get outta my face, brother, or you'll be sorry." To Johnny's surprise, the blond man stood straight and laughed.

"Oh no, you can't drive me away. I know your tricks, Johnny Lancer. You might think you can get the better of me, but it won't work this time."

Johnny struggled to sit again, wincing at the slight pain in his lower back from the sudden movement. Right now the biggest pain he had to contend with was his brother - just standing there, looking so smug. "If I could get on my feet," Johnny growled, "it would give me a heap of pleasure to knock you down, brother."

"I don't doubt that you would try, little brother. Hey, I know! We can get Murdoch and Cipriano in here to support you and I'll stand right in front and you can do your best to punch me in the face."

Johnny was astounded to see that Scott's eyes were alight with some twisted sense of amusement at his idea. Johnny retorted, "Only if I can sell tickets to it. I know plenty of people who'll pay good money to see me knock you flat." There was another twinge in his back, but much more severe. Johnny's hand instinctively clutched at the source of his pain and he toppled sideways with a groan.

Scott was at his side in a second, preventing Johnny from falling off the bed. Johnny didn't miss the opportunity to lash out and, even though it was not fair by any means, his fist shot out. Because of being half-reclining, the punch was not as hard-hitting as Johnny had wanted, but his knuckles made contact with Scott's eye.

Scott stumbled back with one hand clamped to his damaged eye, and cried out, "Ow!"

The fast movement caused an excruciating pain to shaft up Johnny's back, but he managed a croaky challenge. "You just wait 'til I'm on my feet!"

Scott's look of surprise and pain from being hit changed to shock. His hand dropped away from his face. With one eye wide and the other blinking back tears, he pointed to Johnny's legs, hidden under the blanket. "They. . .they moved! Your legs moved!"

Johnny stared at the blanket in disbelief; there was no movement at all. He hadn't shifted his legs, he knew that much. He couldn't move them. He'd tried many times, sometimes throwing off the covers when there was nobody around, just to make one more, just one more futile attempt. "No," he denied under his breath. Scott had imagined it. "No," he said adamantly. "They just shifted because my upper body moved, is all."

Scott held onto Johnny's shoulder, and gave him a little shake. "Try it again."

Johnny raised his voice in frustration. "I didn't try anything the first time! It won't-."

"For God's sake, Johnny, for once, will you listen to me?" Scott reached down and pulled the blanket away to reveal Johnny's legs, encased in the pants that Val had helped him to pull on earlier that day. "Try it," Scott ordered. He supported his brother in a sitting position with an arm around his back.

Johnny did not want to try and disappoint anyone, least of all himself. Besides, he was having trouble just breathing due to the pain that was shooting from his tailbone down the back of his legs. Damn it for coming back. And damn Scott for expecting too much of him. "It's not gonna work, I tell you." Nevertheless, he took a deep breath and told his legs to move. Nothing happened. He looked up at Scott and saw the encouraging look on his face. Johnny tried again and to his utter amazement, his right leg moved. It wasn't much but it bent a little at the knee and his bare foot slid up the mattress a few inches. He sat there with his mouth hanging open in disbelief.

Scott whooped, "Yes!"

Murdoch had heard his sons quarreling then shouting, but it wasn't until there were thumps and the sound of scuffling that he finally put down his book and went upstairs to separate them. He'd left them to sort out whatever they found it necessary to do because he knew that they were good for each other. Even when they fought the two men played off each other.

As he mounted the main staircase, he heard a shout louder than the others. The tenor of it, the excitement, was enough to hurry him along the corridor. Throwing open the door to Johnny's bedroom, he beheld a sight that was both astounding and overwhelming.

Scott stood with his arms supporting Johnny, and the young man who had been told that he would never walk again was standing on his own two feet. The brothers, one so blond, the other dark, both looked up at the same time, laughing. Their expressions of joy and wonder were more than Murdoch had ever hoped for.

He rushed forward, and was just in time to grab Johnny as his knees gave way and he stumbled forward. Murdoch asked, "How did this happen?" He didn't care how or even why, not a whit, so long as his boy was walking, or at least standing. There was still some hope in the world.

***–***TBC


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15 - HARD DEALS

No mask like open truth to cover lies,  
As to go naked is the best disguise.  
~ William Congreve 1694

Dr. Sam Jenkins put away his stethoscope and pursed his lips. "This is one time, folks, that I'm more than happy that I made a misdiagnosis."

Johnny grinned and put his hands behind his head. "I'm more than happy with it, too." He still had slight numbness on his skin, especially on his thighs, but apart from muscle weakness, he seemed to be fine. Well, there was some pain but it was more like an ache, and he could deal with it, easy as pie. He couldn't wait to get up and walking on his own.

"But you, young man," Sam said sternly, "must not overdo it."

"No, sir."

Sam patted Johnny on the shoulder and turned to Murdoch and Scott. "If I can make an educated speculation, I'd say that once the swelling around the spine went down, and the pressure reduced, it was only time before the body healed. The pain he's been experiencing has most likely been muscle spasms. Extreme, but not damaging. But he must, and I repeat _must_," he ordered with an uncertain eye on his patient, "be careful."

"We will see to it, sir," Scott promised.

The pain Johnny had endured had all but disappeared once he was up and out of bed and able to exercise again. The Doc had explained it was similar to having a dislocated shoulder put right - once it was back in its socket, the pain went away as if nothing had ever occurred. Johnny did take it slow, as ordered, but mostly because he could hardly get across the bedroom on his own in the beginning, he was so weak and unsteady. As the days passed, his legs regained their strength, and his confidence grew in accord.

Scott's eye turned various shades of purple, but didn't swell up too much. Johnny felt a twinge of guilt every time he saw the black eye that he'd given his brother, but Scott hadn't held it against him. With a laugh he assured a contrite Johnny that one day he'd return the favor. "But if this is the only price I have to pay to get you up and around again, it's well worth it."

The morning came when Johnny decided to negotiate the suddenly very steep front stairs, under the watchful eye of his brother. It was the ultimate test. With wobbly legs, a firm grip on the banister and a big grin on his face, Johnny made it to the bottom of the staircase in one piece. Once both of his booted feet were firmly placed on the ground floor, Johnny proclaimed happily, "Damn, I made it!"

Scott's joy for his brother was not diminished by the knowledge that Johnny's newfound mobility meant that he would all too soon be leaving Lancer. The tall blond man laughed as he threw an arm around Johnny's shoulder. "Yes, brother, you are quite a success."

Coming from Scott, that was a great compliment, thought Johnny. "Thanks. I appreciate that. I'm just real happy I didn't trip and fall down those stairs." Unable to stop grinning, Johnny asked, "Think you can give me a shoulder to lean on so we can get to the kitchen before breakfast is over?"

"No problem," Scott replied.

Johnny was grateful to sit down on a leather chair on the verandah. He had just returned from his evening walk out to the corral to see how Barranca was doing. It was a feat that both he and his family considered astounding, considering that just over a week earlier he hadn't even been able to wiggle his toes.

From out of the dark of the yard came Scott's voice, followed by the man himself. "You appear to be well on the road to recovery, brother. No dirt on your backside this time?"

Laughing, Johnny asked, "Have you been watching me again?" He had fallen down the day before when he had made a misstep and his legs had given way, giving himself a bit of a scare. Scott had come running to his rescue, but the debility in Johnny's legs had passed and he was able to walk back to the hacienda unaided. Scott had, of course, hovered.

Earlier, when Johnny found an opportunity to go off on his own, he had found a quiet place and practiced drawing his gun using his shoulder holster. He wasn't far from the house so he had to practice with dry firing. It had a different feel from drawing from a holster on his hip and had taken some getting use to. He knew that beating Hal Granger to the draw had been a bit of luck. Scooping his hand under his jacket to grab the grip, withdrawing the gun and aiming it in the right direction - and fast - was quite a challenge. Johnny was looking forward to being able to wear his old holster again, hopefully by the time he left Lancer in a couple of weeks.

Scott placed two tumblers of scotch on the small table near Johnny and pulled up another chair. "No, I wasn't watching you. I trust you know your limits. And abide by them." The nickering of horses came from the direction of the pasture. "It sounds like your new horse is getting along with the others."

"Corona's got a lot of spirit and he's still young. He'll learn soon enough. Cipriano was trying to teach him some manners this afternoon."

"When are you leaving?"

Johnny picked up a glass and sampled the scotch. He avoided replying to Scott's question and instead asked, "Do you like the Glenlivit I brought?"

"Mmm. It has a good smoky taste. As soon as I poured some out for the two of us, Murdoch took his book and disappeared upstairs with the rest of the bottle." Scott chuckled fondly. Apart from the light emanating through the great room's glass doors behind them, and a single lamp burning over on the bunkhouse porch, the night was dark and quiet.

Johnny pulled a small tool from his pants pocket and nipped the top off a cigar but didn't light it. "My doctor back in Frisco told me to cut back on smoking, but I think he meant the cigarettes," he said jokingly. He opened and closed the cutter a few times then put it back in his pocket. Removing the paper ring from the stem of the cigar, Johnny slipped it onto his ring finger on his left hand, where it covered his wedding band. After a minute of absent-minded fiddling, he removed the paper ring, crumpled it up and tossed it on the table.

Scott could tell that his brother had something serious on his mind, and although he was curious to know what it was, he waited to see if Johnny was going to speak up. He'd watched Johnny throw himself into his rehabilitation with as much intensity and focus as if he was preparing for a gunfight. Once he'd been given a reprieve, Johnny had come back to life, but he still had his introspective moments. Finally, when it became apparent that his younger brother wasn't going to open up, Scott prompted him. "Don't you feel that you've come a long way in just the past few days?"

Johnny looked up as if surprised. "Oh yeah."

"Are you overdoing it?" Scott had watched Johnny's appetite return along with his strength and yet he wondered if he was pushing the pace of his rehabilitation a bit too hard.

"I'm just a little tired." The recuperation had taken a lot out of him physically, and at the back of his mind Johnny kept wondering when the miracle he'd been offered was going to be revoked.

"Well, you've certainly impressed me. Sam seems to think you'll be able to travel in a couple of weeks. You'll be glad to get back to normal, I expect."

"There is only so much fresh air a man can take. Don't get me wrong. I love Lancer. The ranch, for me it's tierra adorada. There's no grass greener, no sky bluer, no air sweeter. But on the other hand, I really like cities. So much to do and see." Johnny's face lit up with a wicked smile. "A sporting house on every corner. What about you?"

Scott looked sideways at his brother. "You mean do I like cities or do I like sporting houses?"

"I mean I saw the way that widow lady was looking at you in Baldomero's place when we were buying my new clothes. She had her eye on you," he teased. "A lady like that is better than anything a sporting house can offer."

Although he knew that Johnny was trying to be light, Scott felt uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going. He shifted in his chair and crossed his legs. "I'm not ready yet," he said firmly.

Suddenly, Johnny's tone changed. "Hey, look Scott, I'm sorry. I don't mean to push you." After everything that Scott had told him about his late wife, Johnny wondered if his brother would ever trust himself enough to even try to become close to a woman again. "I understand," Johnny offered. "I sure do."

With a slight shrug, Scott indicated he didn't have hard feelings. "You didn't answer me when I asked when you'd be going back to San Francisco." Scott swiveled in his chair to look directly at his brother. He was sure that Johnny had purposely avoided responding about when he was leaving. Maybe, he hoped, he wanted to stay.

Johnny stalled, picking up his drink and taking a slow sip. He crossed his legs and balanced the glass on his knee. He thought how lucky he was to have any movement in his legs and didn't quite believe this reprieve was going to be permanent. There was a feeling hanging over him, a stupid superstition that his ability to walk was contingent upon him being at Lancer. Johnny shook off the dark mood and responded, "I guess I have to go sometime."

"You don't sound too enthusiastic." Scott wondered why Johnny seemed so reluctant to go back to his home. Also, in all the time that he had been visiting Lancer, Johnny had never volunteered any information about his wife. If her name had come up he would say a few words, but then he'd move on, almost as if she wasn't part of his life. A terrible suspicion grew so Scott cautiously asked, "Was Natalie's health seriously affected by the influenza?"

Johnny shrugged a little. "She was slow to recover. When I had it, it sure sapped my strength."

"She only wrote one letter to you?"

"How'd you. . . oh, Maria told you I got that letter from Natalie," Johnny said.

"I found your mail in your bedside table, remember? Are you telling me the truth? Is she well?"

"Who?" was Johnny's absent-minded reply.

"I'm asking about Natalie, your wife." Scott took a chance and pressed home a point that had never been fully explained. "The woman we never see here. The woman who doesn't seem to care enough about her husband to visit him when he was seriously ill. The woman who shot you!" His voice had risen in anger, which he hadn't intended. He didn't want Johnny to think he was angry with him. It was directed at Natalie, whose blatant absence was disturbing.

Johnny took a deep breath and decided to put his trust in his brother. Not that he didn't trust him, but there were some things that a man didn't want to talk about - with anyone, not even those nearest and dearest. "All right," Johnny said in defeat. "I haven't talked to her in some time." God, this was hard. Just say it, Johnny. Spit it out. "My wife and I. . . we haven't been. . . getting along. We're not like man and wife any more. We've reached an impasse, I'm afraid. Whenever I go back, it's just window dressing."

The revelation was not so unexpected, but still, it hit Scott hard. "I'm so sorry, Johnny." He leaned forward and reached out to touch his brother's knee.

Johnny didn't respond. He didn't want any sympathy. After a minute, he turned his eyes towards Scott and explained, "I've been kept away by work a lot in the past couple of years, but last time I went home, well, that's when my little wife took a potshot at me. We had a humdinger of a fight. I was doing my best to get her to see some sense, but she screamed at me to get out." He looked off into the dark, where the stars were visible in the sky above the black shape of the barn. "I didn't take her seriously when she pulled a little pea-shooter out and pointed it at me." He said with a half-hearted laugh, "I sure took her seriously after she shot me. I patched myself up and spent a couple of days in some hotel. I never went back. I then just lit out. . .took the train up to Carson City. I had business up there anyhow. I'd been drinking so much I was half way there before I realized how bad I was hurting." He arched his back and took in a deep breath.

"How long has this been going on for?" Scott asked. Johnny must have a very volatile relationship with his wife for her to have pulled a gun on him.

"Long enough. We fight a lot, over small things that don't even matter, it seems." Johnny took another sip of his scotch. "I did my damndest to do right by her, but she was never satisfied. Now I spend a lot of my time keepin' out of her way." He looked down at the unlit cigar in his hand. "She has no trouble finding things to keep her busy, but somehow never could find time for me."

"So you came here from Carson City," Scott said. "I thought it was strange when you said you bought your new horse over in Merced. It's not exactly on the line from San Francisco."

"I didn't mean to lie, but everyone assumed I'd come straight from Frisco." Johnny looked up and caught Scott trying to hide a smile, so he asked, "What?"

At first Scott wouldn't reveal the cause of his humor, but eventually he said, "It's not funny, really, but I guess I'm somewhat relieved to find out that you haven't been leading a secret life, I was sure you were hiring out your gun again or selling rifles to the Mexicans or something."

Johnny was taken aback. "What made you think that?"

With a shrug, Scott explained, "You were hiding something, that's for certain, and you rode in here peppered with bullet wounds. . . just things that didn't add up."

"I don't do that any more," Johnny replied, a little affronted. "I've been sinking everything into my work, but occasionally I hit a bit of trouble. On the whole it's all been pretty civilized." Johnny ran a hand over his jaw. "Look, I'm opening this new office down in New Orleans, so I might as well head out that way as soon as I've got my balance back. I, uh, I don't want to go back to Frisco just yet. Leeds and my staff can handle the Frisco office."

"You'll be able to work this out with Natalie, Johnny." Scott was concerned by what appeared to be his brother's avoidance of the issue. "You can't spend your life going from town to town without at least trying to reconcile with her."

"She doesn't want to hear it. She's been real clear on that point," Johnny said bitterly.

"If you go to New Orleans without first going home, you're making a big mistake. You owe it to her, and to yourself, to make things right between you." Scott expected his brother to become prickly and berate him for interfering, but he felt too strongly about this to be cautious. "Or at least to try."

"I _have_ tried!"

"Then try once more," Scott said adamantly.

Johnny ran his fingers through his hair and eventually agreed grudgingly, "You're right. I guess I've been putting off the inevitable. When I'm able, I'll go back to have a heart-to-heart with Natalie." Johnny fumbled for a match, struck it on his boot and lit his cigar. After a couple of puffs he said, with optimism that did not really match his feelings, "You only live once so I might as well jump in with both feet."

Scott gave his little brother some sound advice. "I think, Johnny, that this time you should make sure she isn't armed before you enter the room."

Johnny telegraphed his business manager, Levi Leeds, to inform him that he had suffered a setback and to invite him to come to a meeting at the Lancer Ranch. By the time Leeds arrived, a few days later, Johnny was able to walk as if he had never been through a traumatic operation and lost the use of his legs. Johnny certainly hadn't completely recovered, and his horseback riding was somewhat limited, but every day brought improvement to his physical condition.

Although he still had moments of despondency, Johnny pushed them aside; he was looking forward to getting back to normal. He sent a telegram to Natalie, telling her that they must sit down to talk things out, and when he thought he would arrive home. And by having Leeds come out to talk business, he was taking the first step towards solving some of his unfinished affairs. Business concerns were far easier to solve than matters of the heart, Johnny thought.

Scott had gone to pick up Leeds, so Johnny had plenty of time to get ready. He decided to don his city clothes once again, but found that due to his illness he had lost considerable weight. He tightened the small belt at the back of his waistcoat until it fit snugly, then used the mirror to arrange the folds of his cravat. His recent ordeal had created more creases on his face and he was still paler than normal, but all in all, Johnny felt he'd emerged from the terrible experience in far better condition than anyone had foreseen.

He pulled his shoulder holster out of the drawer where Scott had stowed it to ensure that Johnny didn't 'try anything stupid again.' It seemed a very long time ago. Johnny buckled the holster around his chest then donned his suit jacket. There was something about wearing a gun, no matter whether it was strapped around his hips or across his ribs that gave him a feeling of security that nothing else could achieve.

After a quick brush of his dark hair and the application of a small amount of wax to the ends of his bushy mustache, Johnny went downstairs to await the arrival of his guest.

Scott drove the buckboard to the stage depot to meet Levi Leeds, and by the time they returned the two men were on very good terms. Leeds, a round-faced young man with a glint of humor in his eye and a bowler hat covering his receding hairline, greeted Johnny with a hearty handshake.

The three men sauntered into the great room, talking about business, with Leeds addressing questions to both Scott and Johnny about the day-to-day operation of the large Lancer spread. Later, after taking a look at some of the breeding horses in the pasture beyond the barn, they had supper with Murdoch, then played cards.

Levi had traveled extensively along the East coast, and although he had limited schooling, he was well read and had broad interests, so they found plenty of subjects to converse about. Murdoch wasn't listening, however. He was simply enjoying the scene. Scott had put on the few pounds that Johnny had lost, he observed, and both of the boys seemed to be healthy and in good spirits. For the first time in a long while both Murdoch and his two grown sons were all at ease and happy together.

Early the next morning, while Murdoch set off in the opposite direction, the brothers took the visitor out on horseback to show him a bit of the spread. Johnny, back in his work clothes, rode Barranca and set an easy pace. Like Scott, he enjoyed showing off the ranch to Leeds. They only stayed out for a few hours but by the time they arrived back at the hacienda, both Johnny and Leeds were sore and glad to dismount.

They had just stepped onto the verandah and were talking about finding some lunch when Murdoch rode into the yard, seemingly full of energy. "You boys coming out to help round up some heifers this afternoon?"

Johnny removed his hat and combed his hair back with his fingers. "Guess you'll have to do without us. Mr. Leeds and I need to palaver. All right if we use your desk, Murdoch?"

"Sure, son. See you later then. Scott, you'll join me." Without waiting for a reply, Murdoch wheeled his horse around and took off for the range, accompanied by several of the ranch hands.

Johnny met Scott's eyes. It was plain to see that Scott did not like being ordered around, but the tall blond man said nothing about it. "It looks," Johnny pointed out, "like the coming of Spring has banished the old man's lumbago."

Scott excused himself to their guest, saying lightly, "It's been a pleasure, Levi, but I must go and, as Shakespeare said, get my living by the copulation of cattle."

When Murdoch, Scott and the cowboys returned, some time after the sun had set, it was to find Johnny and Leeds in the kitchen. They had been sampling a bottle of tequila; lemon rinds were scattered across the table and there was evidence they'd been eating tamales and beans. When Murdoch stopped on the threshold to interrupt them, asking if they wanted to dine with him and Scott, Johnny stretched and held his hands to his stomach. "Naw, I think we've eaten plenty. We thought you got lost in the dark." He clapped Leeds on his back and suggested they go outside to smoke their cigars.

While Maria laid out some supper in the dining room, Scott stood on the verandah with crossed arms, watching Johnny and Levi ambling over towards the corral. When they walked beyond the beams of light emanating from the house, their location could be pinpointed by the sound of their laughter and the glowing ends of their cigars.

Murdoch came to the doorway then stepped out to place a hand on his son's shoulder. "He'll be fine, Scott. He's interested in his business venture. He has a fine life and, it appears, a relatively safe one these days."

Scott snorted. "Safe as compared to what? If there's a dangerous situation, Johnny's sure to find it. You didn't see him strolling out into the open just so Granger would reveal himself." Realizing that Murdoch probably didn't know just how close Johnny had come to being killed when facing Hal Granger, Scott cringed inwardly.

"I'm afraid I do know how close to the edge Johnny walks," Murdoch replied with resignation. He took in a deep breath of the night air. "It's the nature of the boy…of the man. But I'm glad you're safe. Both of you. You know, I think I'll take my meal upstairs. This would be the perfect time for me to retire to my room with a book and the rest of that fine malt whiskey."

"Good night, Father."

"Good night, Son."

Levi Leeds left the following afternoon, promising to return to Lancer at some point when he had more time to enjoy it. While one of the ranch hands patiently waited at the reins, Levi leaned down from the height of the buckboard seat to shake Johnny's hand once more. "I'll see you in a few days, John. Good to meet you, Scott." They said their good-byes and Levi waved as the wagon headed down the long drive.

As they slowly made their way back into the hacienda, Johnny said, "I was going into Green River but it's getting late. Guess I'll go tomorrow."

"Something special going on?"

"No, just have some errands to run."

"I'll go with you," Scott said. He didn't leave any room for Johnny to refuse his company.

Johnny narrowed his eyes at his brother. "You mean you're coming along to keep me out of trouble?"

Scott raised an eyebrow. "That would be a waste of my time, don't you think? No matter how much I try, trouble always finds you."

Johnny laughed and clapped Scott on the back. "Maybe it's time you stopped trying. Besides, what kind of trouble can there possibly be in that little town on a Monday morning?"

***–***TBC


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16 - THE FALLEN

Woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.  
~ Bible, Ecclesiastes 4:10

Unfortunately, Johnny found that when he buckled his old gun belt around his hips that morning, in preparation to go to town with Scott, the belt chafed at the scarred area on his hip. He was disappointed, but figured a few more days of putting up with the newer rig wouldn't kill him.

Before he put the gun belt away, Johnny fingered the gouge in the leather caused by the bullet his wife had shot at him. It had been close call and just the thought of Natalie firing a bullet in his direction still made him very angry.

He hadn't received any reply to his stilted letter to Natalie, the one he'd dictated to Teresa right after he'd been sidelined by the operation on his back, but it made little difference. Soon enough he'd be facing his wife once again, and this time, he hoped, they would be able to talk without trying to kill each other. Their discord had gone on long enough.

The Lancer brothers drove the buckboard into Green River, bought and loaded their supplies and did a few errands. Johnny made a trip to the telegraph office to send instructions to a supplier and then sauntered over to the gunsmith's shop to have an adjustment made to his Colt. He was wearing his now broken-in ranching clothes, and his old, familiar deerskin jacket. Underneath it he wore his shoulder holster.

When he was finished at the gunsmith's, Johnny met up with Scott in the large cantina across from the sheriff's office. By unspoken, mutual consent, they avoided the Moralto Hotel, the scene of the killings of Deputy Hansen and his murderer, Hal Granger. The shootout seemed a lifetime ago.

Scott bought a couple of beers at the cantina bar and told Johnny, "I stopped at the sheriff's office, but they said Val won't be in for another hour as far as they know. Let's eat and maybe by the time we're finished, he'll be back in town."

The brothers took a table at the back of the dining room and ordered a late lunch. The place wasn't busy as it was nearly siesta time, and although Scott nodded in recognition to a couple of the customers, he and Johnny kept to themselves. A few men drifted in and out of the cantina, but the whole town seemed to be almost asleep. After they were served their food, the only waitress in the place disappeared from sight, so Johnny had to go to the bar in the front room to purchase a bottle of tequila.

Johnny leaned against the bar with the tequila bottle before him, one boot on the foot rail, and waited for his change. He suddenly became aware of tension in the place. Without moving his head, from out of the corner of his eye, he saw the customer to his right back cautiously away from the bar, then hurriedly scuttle out the swing doors.

The bartender slapped some change on the countertop, then looked up and fixed his gaze on a point somewhere past Johnny's shoulder. Scowling, the man wiped his hands on his dirty apron and barked, "Salga de mi cantina! No quiero apuro adentro aquí. You take your trouble somewhere else, Junior!"

With a sinking feeling, Johnny knew two things for sure. One was that whoever was behind him was serious trouble. And two, he must be getting way too secure in his old age not to have kept his guard up. It looked like he may have just made his final mistake. Stupid, stupid, Johnny thought. Estúpido, usted debe haber estado más enterado.

Johnny could tell that Junior, whoever he might be, was close behind him, but the thought of spinning around and shooting was quickly dismissed as both dangerous and ill advised. Instead, Johnny very slowly reached out for the bottle of tequila with his right hand, surreptitiously pulled back the left breast of his jacket with the other and turned to face the unknown man.

Junior, it appeared, was Junior Granger. He so closely resembled the man who Johnny had shot to death in the Moralto Hotel's bar only a few weeks back that there was no mistaking the relationship. With his close-cropped light hair, heavy shoulders, and fresh face, Junior looked like a farm boy of no more than eighteen. But there was a mean look about his eyes that put Johnny's back up. Another bully. Just like Hal Granger. Great.

Junior stood no more than eight feet away, his legs braced as if expecting to be rushed, with one hand clenching and unclenching near his tied-down pistol. "You killed my Pa," he said in a menacing tone.

It took Johnny a second to decide which approach to take, and when he replied, he hoped fervently his choice of his line of attack was the right one. He slowly raised his hands, his right one clasped around the neck of the bottle of tequila, his left hand open. "He was your father? I'm sorry about that," Johnny said sincerely. "But Hal Granger had just murdered a deputy. A good fellow, I hear, who will be sorely missed. And your father was about to hurt some more innocent folks, son."

The young man's eyes widened a little, confused as much by Johnny's calm tone as by his frank words. "I don't care why you killed my Pa. I aim to make you pay for doin' it."

There was a slight movement to Johnny's right, and he sent a glance in that direction. In the doorway to the back room stood Scott, his hand dangerously near his gun. Johnny sent what he hoped was a look telling his brother to back off, and risked a slight jerk of his head to enforce his command. The last thing they needed was for this youth to think he was being crowded and begin shooting at everyone. Having a second chance at life, Johnny did not want to become this farm boy's victim. At this close a range, Junior was not likely to miss.

"All right," Johnny said agreeably. "Let's say you shoot me down. Then what?"

"Then what?" Junior was nonplussed.

"Then what? Are you going to take up the life of a pistolero?"

"No, I'm just gonna kill you." Junior blinked several times, perplexed. He couldn't figure out what the man was getting at. He aimed to kill the black-haired fellow with the big mustache and then go home to feed the hogs and do the rest of his chores before sundown.

Johnny shook his head as if disappointed. "Kill me and go home? I'm real sorry to say it doesn't work like that Junior. Besides, I'm not wearing a gun belt." He held his hands a little higher and when one of the front panels of his jacket swung aside, he hoped his holster wasn't showing.

Junior pointed his finger at Johnny's chest. "I heard about you. You got a hidden one in there. You used to be a gunfighter, but now you're a coward, that's what!"

Johnny stiffened and he could see out of the corner of his eye that the couple of men remaining in the cantina were running for the exit. Scott stood sideways in the doorway so as not to be too big a target, and slowly pulled his revolver from its holster. He held it out of sight, alongside his leg and kept a close eye on Junior.

With an effort, Johnny said offhandedly, "I'm going to overlook what you just said, Junior. Can I call you Junior?" Junior glowered at him and didn't reply, but he didn't make a move for his pistol, either, so Johnny continued. "I've been known to be proficient with my gun, and used it often. I'll admit that, but those times are long gone." Johnny raised the bottle of tequila in invitation. "How about you join me for a couple of drinks and we can talk about this, son? I know you don't really want to kill me. You're not that kind of man. Not like your old man, I can tell."

But Junior took exception to some or all of Johnny's words and his hand came down and pulled his revolver out of his holster surprisingly fast. At the same time, Johnny threw himself to one side, dropped the tequila and grabbed for his own gun. He had barely practiced during the past week, and had only been using the shoulder holster for a month or so. Later on Johnny deemed it miraculous that he not only drew his gun with respectable speed, but that his aim was pretty accurate.

Three deafening gunshots resounded throughout the cantina even before the tequila bottle smashed to the ground. Junior's bullet went wild and took out a whole shelf of bottles behind the bar, but Johnny's found its mark. So did Scott's. He'd aimed low and shot Junior through his calf. Junior fell to the barroom floor like a sack of potatoes, clutching at his shoulder and his leg at the same time, bellowing in pain.

Johnny promptly took a couple of paces forward and stepped hard on the fallen man's wrist, then bent down to relieve him of his gun. Scott checked out the fallen man, searching for other weapons, but found only a small knife. He tossed it aside. The brothers stood over Junior Granger, ignoring him as they exchanged glances. Johnny nodded his thanks and Scott replied as he holstered his revolver, "I'd say any time, brother, but I don't want to make a habit of this."

Johnny nodded. "It's enough to make a man avoid goin' in any cantina."

A couple of minutes later, Val appeared at the door, gun drawn. A look of relief swept over his face. "Can't you boys just come into town and then leave without causing a ruckus? You know, like regular folks do?"

Scott took a hold of Junior and heaved him to his feet, saying without guile to Val, "But we're not regular folks, Val." He grinned and slung one of Junior's arms around his neck. "We're Lancers, and since you're part of our family I'd think you'd be used to it by now. I think there's a jail cell with this fellow's name on it, don't you?"

"Whoa!" Johnny stopped his brother and Val from dragging Junior Granger out of the cantina. "Not so fast. I want a word with him. Sit him over there." He pointed towards the far corner of the dining room.

Scott looked skeptical. "Johnny. . ."

Val shouldered his way between Johnny and the injured man, who was moaning loudly. "Now, Johnny, I don't want to see you doin' nothing too stupid over this piece of garbage."

"I only want to talk with him," Johnny protested, but the way that Val cocked his eyebrow told him the sheriff didn't believe him.

Still held in Scott's firm grip, and obviously in a lot of pain, Junior rasped, "I don't wanna go with him! You can't let him take me! I need a doctor."

Val ignored the wounded man. "If you don't bring Junior over to the jail in five minutes, tops, I'm coming gunning for you, Lancer." Johnny grinned in response, so Val poked his chest with a finger and added, "And make sure he still has all his parts intact."

Scott and Johnny took Junior Granger into the back room and tossed him into a heavy wooden chair. Scott pulled up a second chair, placed a foot on the seat and leaned on his raised knee. "You better listen to what Johnny has to say, Mister, because I can't hold him back when he gets frustrated." He glanced over his shoulder at Johnny, who downed a glass of beer and slammed it on the table.

"I wanted a glass of tequila, that's all," Johnny complained to nobody in particular.

"Oh, I think my little brother's already frustrated," Scott warned. He pointed to blood leaking from Junior's leg and pooling on the barroom floor. "Besides, if you don't co-operate, he'll keep you here and from the way that leg is bleeding, well, I'd say you don't have much time."

Junior's right arm hung limply at his side. His left hand was pressing on his shoulder wound, and blood welled between his fingers. He looked at his injured leg, then from one of the Lancer men to the other, his eyes wide with apprehension.

Johnny took his time, but eventually sat on the edge of the table, close to the cowering young man. He pulled out his gun, which made Junior jerk back, but Johnny only held his weapon in his hand and inspected it. "You know what this is, Junior?"

"A gun," Junior replied, even though the moment the words were out of his mouth he knew that his response was incorrect. The dark man seated on the table leaned forward and the look in the cold, blue eyes made Junior shrink away.

Junior's father had been a harsh man, and had thrown his weight around with disregard for everyone. Hell, he had been just plain mean, but this Johnny Lancer was somehow worse than the old man. There was something in his eyes that showed he knew exactly what Junior was thinking, and that he meant business.

"No," Johnny said in a harsh voice. "This is not a gun. This is not only your future, but the future of every living being who you'll ever know. This gun, and how you use it, determines whether people live or die, and every piece of lead that comes out this barrel sets off a whole set of circumstances that are way beyond your control. The only thing you have any control over is whether or not you pull the trigger. Once you've done that. . ." Johnny's fingers ran across the cooling metal of his Colt. "If you'd killed me, and you'd gotten away with it, next thing you know, men would start to appear in town. They'd hear you're the fastest man with a gun in these parts and come to challenge you. You might be able to beat one or more of them if you're real lucky, but eventually one is gonna be faster than you, that's for sure. There's always someone out there who is faster than you are. These are men who'd have no compunction in shooting you down like a dog and letting you die with your guts spilling out all over the street. Do you understand that?"

From somewhere down deep, Junior did understand what Lancer was saying, but he didn't believe that anything like that would happen to him. He'd only intended to kill the bastard who had shot his father, who had also been a bastard, but even so, that didn't make killing the old man all right. "That won't happen to me. And even if they come after me, I'll face them down. I ain't scared! I'm a pretty good shot-."

Johnny grabbed a handful of Junior Granger's shirt and hauled the hefty young man out of the chair, ignoring the twinge in his back. Blood was soaking the wounded man's arm and it was dripping on the floor, but Johnny paid it no heed at all. "You listen to me, and you listen good. Once you start down that slippery slope, shooting one man out of revenge and the next out of self-defense, how long before you kill for no reason at all? You'll never be able to sleep the night through, ever again, never have friends, never have a wife, never have a family. Your home will be wherever you can hide out for one night, and you'll always be on the move. And when you get hurt, and believe me you will get hurt, again and again, there won't be anyone you can trust to dig lead out of you."

Releasing Junior, who slumped back in his chair, Johnny stood over him and sneered, "If you're unlucky enough to live as long as I have, every old bullet or knife wound in your body is gonna haunt you. If you live long enough, your body's gonna stiffen up so you feel like you're seventy when you've only lived thirty years. If you live to be thirty, that is."

Johnny returned his gun to its holster under his jacket. "Take my advice, boy, and straighten up now, otherwise it'll be the last advice you ever get." Johnny turned his back on the wounded man. "C'mon, Scott, let the sheriff clean up this mess."

Things went back to normal at Lancer, or as normal as they could be with Johnny's visit drawing to a close. In order to get some free time so he could spend it with his brother, Scott had to assign his own chores and even some responsibility to the ranch hands, which was not quite as terrible a sacrifice as he had expected it to be. This left him free to accompany Johnny on a picnic with Val and Teresa and the children along the Morro River as well as to spend one afternoon fishing together. Afterwards, Scott felt more relaxed and happier than he had for a long time.

On their way back from fishing, Scott stopped at the cabin that had been his and Jenny's hideaway. "Just a short detour," was all he told Johnny.

They dismounted and Johnny looked around the place curiously. He hadn't been near the cabin in years but it appeared pretty well maintained. Scott led the way inside and Johnny followed. Although the furnishings were nothing special, they were far more comfortable than any he'd seen in their line shacks. It didn't take Johnny long to realize the significance the cabin held for Scott. "Nice little place." He looked sideways at his blond brother and asked, "Good memories?"

Scott ran a hand over the stone fireplace and slowly smiled. "Yes. Good memories."

Johnny nodded. "That's good. Hang onto those, brother, so they don't fade."

Bowing his head, Scott replied in a quiet voice, "I will."

When they had mounted their horses and were on their way back to the hacienda, Scott asked, "Johnny, did you really mean what you said to Junior Granger?"

Johnny looked puzzled. "What part are you talking about?"

"I know you were just trying to put the fear of God into him, but you said some things. . . like how a man who picks up the gun can never have family or friends." He looked Johnny in the eye. "That you can't sleep the night through or trust anyone."

Settling his hat on his head, Johnny took a moment to reply. "Well, big brother, you know I never have trouble sleeping." He flashed a grin and urged Barranca into a canter.

Although Scott never again spoke to his brother about the lecture he'd given to Junior Granger, he reflected on it for some time. Johnny had obviously spoken from the heart about things he knew about all too well: hate, distrust, killing.

In the end Scott came to the conclusion that because Johnny did have a family and people he could trust, the things he'd said must have been just for show. A long time ago Johnny had followed that road that he'd described to Junior. He had picked up a gun and used it against men, and they had returned violence in kind. But somewhere along the journey, Johnny had found a way to veer off that downward path; somehow he'd been able to stop before he became a man who killed for no reason at all. Scott hoped above all else that he had been a part of that significant change, and that when Johnny reunited with their father and found a safe haven in Lancer, that it enabled him to finally walk in peace.

Johnny found at times he had to concentrate in order to walk without a limp, especially when he was tired, or had just dismounted, but generally there was little evidence of the physical and mental trauma he had been through. Every day he felt more like his old self.

Scott had to spend time working around the ranch, and although he didn't press his brother to join him, Johnny pitched in. He assisted the vaqueros when they needed an extra man to herd some unbroken horses into a makeshift corral, and was recovered enough to work a winch alongside one of the hands to raise some heavy planking up to the loft of the barn.

Scott thought wryly that his brother would not have been so eager to help out if Murdoch had been out there telling his sons what to do. Johnny would have balked at taking orders, most likely falling into the old patterns. Scott knew how he felt. One thing his brother's visit had done was to open his eyes a bit. Once Johnny had left, Scott decided he'd sit down with Murdoch and talk out his problems, especially concerning the way the ranch was being run. If he didn't speak up soon, things could very well revert to the unhappy state in which Johnny had found them some weeks earlier, and he couldn't live like that again.

When Johnny and Scott returned to the hacienda at the end of each day and sat around in the great room with their father and sometimes Val, their talk was genial despite a couple of heated discussions over politics. But they managed to come out of them, if not with mutual understanding, at least with added respect for each other.

It seemed to be a good time in their lives, each finding some promise in the future, but to Scott it was bittersweet. He was painfully aware that once Johnny was gone, he was going to have an empty space in his heart.

And Johnny, although he never said anything about his feelings, knew in his gut that he longed to remain at Lancer. So much so that it hurt.

Neither man spoke up.

After another tough but satisfying morning working with some of the stock alongside Murdoch, Johnny returned to the house with his father for a bite to eat. They were no sooner inside than one of the hands called out, "Rider comin'!" Johnny stepped back out and stood beside Murdoch and waited to see who it was.

"Don't know him," said Murdoch.

Neither did Johnny, but once the rider came closer, it was clear that he was not bringing trouble. Plain in appearance and clothing, with no gun in sight, the man looked like some kind of clerical worker.

The fellow pulled his horse in and identified himself. "Franklin J. Pierson of Pierson, Handley and Dickerson. Attorneys." He looked enquiringly from one man to the other and asked, "Mr. John Vicente Lancer?"

Johnny stepped forward. "That's me." He knew full well why the lawyer had come all the way out to the ranch, and had been half-expecting him. "Step on down, Mr. Pierson, and come in." Johnny turned to his father. "We'll need to use your corner of the great room."

Murdoch nodded. Whatever the lawyer's business was with Johnny, it was of a private nature, so he excused himself and took off for the barn. He hoped that his son would seek him out once the lawyer was gone and fill him in on what was going on, but his expectation of becoming Johnny's confidante was not very high; Johnny was a private man. Murdoch chuckled to himself; like father, like son.

***–***TBC


	17. Chapter 17

NOTE: Once again, thanks for all of the reviews and comments - I'd love to be able to respond to the many guests but can't unless you are a FF member, apparently. I haven't written in the Lancer fandom for a while but as I cast an eye over some of my 'old' fics, I remember how much I enjoyed writing them. I am not making corrections or edits unless something catches my eye, and hopefully my writing has improved since I wrote this and other Lancer gen fics, but in looking them over it does make me think about getting back into writing Lancer stories. It's good to know that someone is enjoying them, so again, thanks!

CHAPTER 17 - THE OLD PATHS

The old paths lead me back  
As I try to interpret this dream  
Walking through walls no matter  
How many times they close  
I have to keep pushing  
And pushing them open.  
~ Joanne Hotchkiss

When Scott came in from work, Johnny was still ensconced with the lawyer. Murdoch told his older son the little he knew about what was going on. He suggested they stay away from the great room until Johnny and Pierson had concluded their business, so Scott accompanied him to a small room at the back of the ground floor that they sometimes used as a study.

Later on Johnny located his father and brother back there, sitting with drinks in their hands, relaxing. There were books and newspapers strewn about, but Murdoch was quick to clear a chair for Johnny.

"Sit here and tell us about Mr. Pierson," Murdoch suggested. The closed off look on his son's face did not suggest he was the bearer of good news.

"He's gone," was all Johnny said. He dropped into one of the leather armchairs with a big sigh and folded his hands over his stomach. "Pierson took his time going over every detail of a contract, that's all." He glanced up to see the dubious looks his explanation had garnered but he avoided going into any further detail by saying, "I, uh, I have to go back to San Francisco as soon as I can."

Scott leaned forward in concern. "Is everything all right?"

Johnny tried not to fiddle with his thumbs and wondered why he was able to control his features but not his hands. "It's just. . . just business." He stood abruptly and moved restlessly around the small room. He shouldn't have come into the study. It was too confining a space, especially when he was under the watchful eyes of his father and brother. Determined to act as if nothing had upset him, Johnny stopped fidgeting and sat on one of the deep window's sills and leaned back on his palms. "It's time I got out of your hair. Scott has the spring roundup soon. I'll just get in your way."

"Of course you won't, Johnny. Scott was telling me how you've been helping the men. That's good. They enjoy having you around." Johnny nodded in acknowledgement then Murdoch added, "But in my opinion, you're not ready to leave yet, son." Although he spoke softly, his manner was firm and offered no latitude.

Johnny smiled at the old man with understanding. What his father really meant was that _he_ wasn't ready for Johnny to leave yet. It was a touching but ineffective attempt to keep him at Lancer. "I've recovered, Murdoch. I can ride and walk and even run, so there's no more excuse for me to stay on here. I should be long gone," he said mostly to himself, not quite disguising his longing to stay at Lancer.

"I agree with Murdoch," Scott said. He rose and confronted his brother. "It's still too soon."

"I think I can be the judge of that," Johnny was quick to retort.

Scott didn't back off. "Do you, now? Your judgment has proved to be somewhat impaired recently. You're just taking off, are you? Got any plans?" Johnny looked away and didn't reply, so Scott repeated his question. "I said have you got-."

Johnny's head snapped around and met his brother's unrelenting gaze. "I heard you the first time. Yeah, I got plans." He saw the hope die in Scott's eyes, so he slapped him lightly on the stomach. "Thanks anyway, brother."

Reluctantly breaking into a smile, Scott replied, "At least you're walking out on your own two feet."

Murdoch eyed his two sons and noted the undercurrents within their conversation. He felt a little like an intruder. "Johnny, are you still planning on taking a trip down to New Orleans? Maybe you can stop here on your way back."

Johnny stood, all signs of humor disappearing. "I guess I didn't make it clear. You see, sir, about my decision to open up an office in New Orleans?" He cleared his throat. "Well, my business plans include me moving there on a permanent basis."

Murdoch made an effort to keep his dismay from showing. Johnny's announcement was a surprise to him and it hit him hard. "I thought Mr. Leeds was the one. . . " His voice trailed off as Johnny shook his head to say no. All of a sudden, Murdoch was afraid that once Johnny left California, he would never see him again, and the thought caused his chest to tighten. He recovered and said, "The move sounds like a good idea, son. It's important to be right in the transportation center when you're an importer." Murdoch stood and laid a hand on Johnny's shoulder. "But don't forget us, will you?" Within a couple of seconds, Johnny was in his arms, clapping him on the back. The embrace didn't last long, but it was so heart-felt that amid the sadness Murdoch experienced a deep sense of fulfillment.

That evening, the Lancer men sat in front of the fire and played chess. Murdoch occasionally read sections of the newspaper aloud and they engaged in small talk. They resolved to enjoy the time they had left and at no time did they bring up the subject of Johnny's imminent departure.

Before settling in for the night, Johnny put on his shoulder holster and his jacket and strolled down to the Lancer gate in the dark. He leaned against the big archway and rolled himself a smoke and cleared his mind, then slowly ambled back. He was looking forward to retiring for the night, as the day's events had taken their toll on him. He had decided to leave in two days, and every time he thought too hard about it, his throat constricted. The sound of footsteps alerted Johnny to someone approaching, and his hand slipped under his jacket and touched the hilt of his gun until he realized the dark figure was only Scott.

As Scott walked down to meet his brother, he called out, "Nice night." They talked for a few minutes, then stood with their eyes looking skyward in the hope of catching sight of a falling star.

"None tonight," Johnny said with disappointment. He took one last puff, stubbed out his cigarette on his boot and tucked the remainder in his breast pocket. Gathering up his resolve, Johnny said, "I don't want you to think I'm running out on you, Scott."

"I know you're not. You have our own life to lead, Johnny. Anyway, this visit of yours has given me a bit of a kick in the pants. You know, I was beginning to hate this ranch, much as it pains me to say, but you made me realize that my problem doesn't lie with Lancer. It was misdirected. The hate I feel is for what Jenny did to herself." They turned and slowly walked back towards the lights of the hacienda, their boots crunching on the gravel of the drive. "I went around blaming everyone, including myself for her death, but there is no fault to find. My wife made a choice, and a very bad choice as it turned out. I wasn't looking for anything to be wrong, so I never saw her quandary. I didn't want to see it." He looked at Johnny and touched his shoulder briefly. "Promise me you'll take a good, thorough look at Natalie and don't ignore whatever it is that she needs."

"I will, brother. Promise."

Scott stopped and said something that had been bothering him for some time. "Johnny, you never really said why she shot at you." At first, he thought his brother wasn't going to reply, he was so quiet, just standing in the dark with his body all tensed up.

Johnny bowed his head for a moment, then shoved his hands in his pockets and continued walking towards the house. As he passed Scott, he said, "No. No, I didn't."

Scott had expected Johnny to balk but he had not expected to be completely rebuffed. He sighed and hurried to catch up with his brother. It looked like he'd never know what had instigated Natalie to shoot at her husband.

After a few paces, when Scott was in step with him once again, Johnny suggested, "What would you think of us two making a little trip up to Cooper Canyon before I go? Just for one last look at it." He hesitated then said, "Unless the big rancher can't find time for some pleasure?"

"That's a fine idea, Johnny. I'd like that a lot."

Cooper Canyon wasn't a hard ride, but the brothers took it easy. Johnny felt stronger every day, and had felt no pain issuing from his back for a while, but for a change he wasn't tossing all caution to the wind. Their time together was almost up so the brothers savored every moment they had left.

The canyon was one of the most beautiful spots on the ranch, and in the spring, with the grass green and fresh and the wildflowers blooming, it took the viewer's breath away. Johnny and Scott ate the lunch they'd packed, of cold meat, bread and beer, sitting on the bank of a rushing stream. They didn't discuss Johnny's plan to leave, or their wives, or even the ranch business, but just basked in the sun and related tales of their past exploits and shared some old memories.

Sam waited in his large, new buggy for the Lancers to say goodbye to Johnny. Johnny's bags were safely stowed away and his black horse was tied on a long leading rein to the rear. Once more, Johnny was leaving Barranca in the care of his family. It seemed fitting to Sam that the palomino stayed in Johnny's stead, like a placeholder.

Sam still thought it was a bit premature for his patient to be traveling, but the young man had insisted. Sometimes the doctor reluctantly accepted that there was just no holding Johnny back. At least the whole family, including Val and Teresa and their little ones had come to a farewell supper on the previous evening. Sam had turned up just in time for dessert and had enjoyed being included in the family gathering.

The boy looked as right as rain in his dark suit, his black Stetson grasped in his hand. Sam corrected himself - Johnny was not a boy any more, but a mature man with a whole different set of concerns than those he'd come to Lancer with seven years earlier. Sometimes there was a flash of Johnny Madrid in him, especially when he grinned or when he looked defenseless. But the youth had developed into a handsome man who commanded attention when he walked down the street. Not the same way that the gunfighter had, not with an unmistakable aura of something dangerous lurking beneath the surface, but more along the lines of a man who was confident that his choices were the right ones. The doctor smiled to himself when he realized that Johnny was not so unlike his father in spirit.

Murdoch admonished Johnny as he crushed him in a farewell hug, "Just remember, son, that we expect to see you back here with Natalie very soon."

"Yes, sir." Johnny looked up at his father, afraid he'd never see him again. "You know I. . ."

"I know, son," was Murdoch's understanding reply as he gave his younger son a final embrace.

Scott smiled at his brother fondly and held him close, albeit briefly. "You always say you're fine, Johnny, but this time I know you will be just fine. Good luck with everything. Don't be a stranger."

"Make sure you write," Murdoch ordered.

Johnny bowed his head and jumped in the buggy next to Sam. Earlier, he had dodged getting too emotional simply by not talking about leaving, but now the time was upon him, he was all choked up.

Murdoch waved and called after him, "The door is always open, Johnny."

After the buggy had navigated through the Lancer arch and turned onto the road, Sam pulled a large, white handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Johnny without even turning his head. He studiously watched the road. "This buggy," he said conversationally, "was Scott's bright idea, you know. I was reluctant to get rid of my old rattletrap at first, but your brother convinced me to invest in a new vehicle."

Johnny turned his head away while he wiped his eyes, but a few minutes later he was able to look forward again. He held out the piece of white cloth. "You want this back?"

"No, you keep it." Sam grinned. "Seems you must have an empty pocket somewhere in that fancy coat of yours."

Johnny gave a slight smile, put the handkerchief away then pulled his right jacket breast aside to reveal a flat flask tucked in an inside pocket. He pulled it out and offered it the doctor. "I have something better than an empty pocket." Sam Jenkins didn't hesitate to take a swig, and that set Johnny laughing. Once they'd had enough, Johnny returned the flask to his pocket. He then pulled an envelope out and offered it to Sam.

The older man glanced at the envelope, but returned his gaze to the road ahead. "What's that?" he asked gruffly.

Johnny shrugged a little. "I figured it was about time we settled up the bill, Doc."

Sam made a guttural noise. "You put that away, young man. I don't need-."

"Yes you do," retorted Johnny. "Scott tells me you don't bill half your patients and when they do pay, the majority pay in livestock or grain. This is green, Sam, and you're earned it." He shoved the envelope towards Sam, who reluctantly accepted it.

"You must be real good at mathematics to have figured out the correct sum," Sam said with a straight face.

"The truth is I made a wild guess, so if it isn't enough, make sure you send a bill for the balance to my father." Johnny smiled affectionately at the old doctor. "We both know I owe you a heck of a lot more than what's in that envelope."

Sam reached a gnarled hand out and patted Johnny on his knee. "The reward comes from seeing you up and about again, son."

They made it to the railway depot a little late and Johnny had to rush to get his horse settled in the stock car. In a way it was a good thing because he didn't want another emotional scene, this time with the doctor. When the train pulled out a few minutes later, Johnny Lancer stood on the little metal platform between two railway cars and waved to Sam until he could see him no more.

Several months later, on a bright October day, Scott stopped at the freight office to pick up the mail. He dropped the pile of packages and letters in the back of the buckboard along with the supplies he'd just purchased, but kept one letter in his hand. Sitting on the high seat, all the sounds of the town disappeared as he focused on the words Johnny had written to him.

His brother had only dropped a line one other time in the past six months, so Scott was torn between being mad about the infrequency of the letters and being excited to finally get another one. In the previous correspondence, Johnny had said that he had returned to San Francisco and had a sit-down with Natalie, and that he had reached an understanding with her. He wasn't specific about the details. Scott and Murdoch had been happy for him, knowing that the love of a good woman was what Johnny needed.

The tone of the newly arrived letter that Scott held in his hands was different. Johnny wrote that he and Levi Leeds had opened the new office in New Orleans. He described the heat and humidity, the stench of the city and the overwhelming number of brothels in the city. His words were full of humor with an acidic bite to them, Scott thought.

Scott turned the envelope over to see the date. It was a month old. There was some lively description about Johnny's business and characters he'd encountered in Louisiana, but little about his well-being; Johnny wrote that he was fine in such a scribble that he appeared to be rushing just to get it said.

Johnny then dedicated half a page of things he asked Scott to relate to the other family members: tell Teresa the ladies all wear bustles and he even saw one with a live butterfly in her hair; tell Murdoch that the Society of Stockmen has a painting of California's coastline in their clubhouse and that the members know and respect the name of Murdoch Lancer; tell Val that the lawmen wear shiny new uniforms that make them stick out like sore thumbs. Then Johnny asked for news of Lancer and especially wanted to know if Teresa had borne the new baby yet. Johnny had signed off with only a J and even that was smudged.

Scott smiled. Teresa had indeed delivered a boy, and he had been named Terrence Scott Crawford. Suddenly, even in the midst of the bustle of Green River, Scott was overcome by a feeling of lonesomeness. How he wished he could be with his brother, even if Johnny and Natalie were living in New Orleans. They were not likely to come back to Lancer for a visit any time soon, but even so, Scott wished that Johnny and his wife would come for Christmas this year. That was only two months away, he told himself. He'd write back as soon as he got home, and make Johnny promise they'd come. Then he could tolerate the wait more easily. Scott put Johnny's letter with the other mail and headed back to Lancer.

Scott had taken the advice of his brother and had taken Steven Crook's widow out to a dance, and although he had enjoyed their time together, he had not called upon her again. He didn't know if he'd ever be ready to look at another woman with his beloved Jenny still so close to his heart. These days he was able to see her as she used to be when they were happy together.

He had no sooner stepped in the door of the hacienda and called out to Murdoch to tell that there was a letter from Johnny, than one of the vaqueros warned of an incoming rider.

"Hay un hombre en un caballo que viene abajo del camino."

Murdoch came from the kitchen, not having heard the vaquero's shout, and instructed Scott, "I want you to ride over to Jensen's this afternoon. He's still mouthing off about the water rights and how we've caused his brook to dry up. I've told him half a dozen times the water table is getting lower all over the district and we're in the middle of a drought. Maybe we can help him out and allow his cattle to use the water hole. . . Scott, are you listening to me?"

But Scott was not listening to his father. He held up a hand to indicate the old man should wait a minute, then strode to the front door and opened it wide. There, dressed in a calico shirt and Mexican pants with brass buttons down the legs, his old gun belt buckled around his hips, covered in dust from the road, stood Johnny, grinning from ear to ear. Almost as surprising as his sudden appearance was that fact that Johnny was clean-shaven, his mustache gone.

Johnny raised an eyebrow. "Ain't you gonna let your own brother in?"

***–***TBC


	18. Chapter 18

Once again, thanks for the comments! I enjoy reading your feedback.

CHAPTER 18 - THE CONFESSION

We acknowledge our faults in order to repair by our sincerity the damage we have done us in the eyes of others.  
~ Rochefoucauld 1665

Scott laughed and grabbed his younger brother in a bear hug worthy of their father, then dragged the weary traveler over the threshold and inside. Murdoch was there immediately, greeting Johnny effusively, his eyes suspiciously damp. Maria heard the commotion and rushed out to welcome Johnny back as well.

Once Johnny was seated with a glass of lemonade at his elbow, and Maria had gone back to the kitchen and left the men alone to talk, he heaved a sigh of relief. He was more than glad to be sitting in his favorite chair in the great room, and enjoyed feeling right at home. "I've had enough travel to last a lifetime," Johnny declared.

"Well, it's good to have you here, son," Murdoch said. "This certainly is unexpected. We were hoping you might find the time to come home for Christmas. Well, now you'll be here for your birthday. The humidity in Louisiana must be hard to take at this time of year, especially if you're not used to it."

Scott asked him something about New Orleans, but Johnny wasn't listening. He held up his hands to stop the flow of questions. "Look, I need to say somethin' and it ain't easy."

"Of course, son." Murdoch's brow furrowed in concern.

Scott had noticed that Johnny was back to wearing his gun belt around his hips, and that the dark-haired man's right hand occasionally strayed to the leather holster, as if he was touching a talisman. He doubted that Johnny even knew he was doing it. Scott assured his brother, "Take your time. We're not going anywhere."

Once Johnny had their full attention, and their eyes were looking at him expectantly, he felt like bolting for the door. Instead, he steeled himself and jumped right in. "First off, I've left New Orleans and I don't plan to go back there." Both Scott and Murdoch were obviously trying to keep their expressions neutral, but both were failing.

Murdoch uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "What's going on, son? "

Johnny knew he was going to let them down when they heard the whole story and he dreaded telling it. "Things have changed," he warned. They were going to be a hell of a lot more shocked, and more than a little disappointed in him, after they heard what he had to say.

"First of all, Scott, I took your advice," Johnny began. "When I left here back in March I went straight to Natalie and we had a long talk. We came to a conclusion, but not the one either of you would expect." They were looking at him expectantly and Johnny didn't want to let them down. God, this was hard. "You see, Natalie and I, we haven't been. . . living as man and wife. . . for some time." Just say it, spit it out, he thought. "When I was here, recuperating, her lawyer sent me the divorce papers. When I didn't respond the way she wanted me to, her lawyer, that Pierson fellow, came here."

"So it wasn't about your business," said Scott. He didn't seem overly surprised.

Johnny shrugged apologetically. "I didn't want anyone to know how bad it was between me and Natalie, but now there's no more hiding it. We are now officially divorced," he said with more than a trace of bitterness.

Murdoch said, "Oh no, Johnny," as if he'd just been told of the death of an old friend. It was then that he noticed that Johnny was no longer wearing his gold wedding band, and that struck him harder than Johnny's admission that he had divorced his wife.

Johnny was afraid that if hesitated too long he'd never get it all out. "Things have been in limbo with us for so long I guess I got used to it." He ran a hand over his jaw. "I kept myself busy with work, and the thing of it is that the worse it got between us, the better my business got. It grew really fast, and. . .well, the bottom line is I just sold the business to give her what she wanted."

"You sold your business?" Murdoch asked as he tried to take it all in.

Johnny nodded. "Yeah, to Levi Leeds and his new business partner, a man who was one of my rivals, an importer down there. Lock, stock and barrel."

Scott stood without meaning to. The whole world seemed to be turned upside down, and he was having a hard time taking Johnny's story in. He didn't understand. Johnny seemed to be more concerned with his business than with his wife. Surely he could have done something, anything to keep his marriage intact. "Did you try with her? I mean really try?"

"Scott," Murdoch warned.

"It's okay," Johnny assured his father. To Scott he said, "I did try. Nobody'll ever know how much effort I put into it. We had something in the beginning, and it burned bright, but. . . something happened." He motioned for Scott to sit down. "You see, soon after we were first married, Natalie was expecting our baby." Johnny watched his father's face fall, and saw Scott's expression was of dawning horror as the meaning of his words became clear.

Scott sank into his chair as if his knees were weak. He mouthed the word, "No. No, Johnny."

Johnny looked at his hands rather than at their faces and said quietly, "She lost the baby, and she was sickly for a time. Later on, when she got better, I thought everything was back to normal, but Natalie didn't want anything to do with me. I tried everything, everything I could to make things right. I was patient and I did whatever she asked of me. But it was like she was a different person. No matter what I did. . ." He got up abruptly and poured himself a whisky before settling back in his chair. Neither Scott nor his father had taken their eyes off him, and he colored under their scrutiny.

"I went away on business, felt guilty for being away, came back to a wife who didn't want me there, got angry and left again. We went on like that for. . .for years." Saying it aloud hurt Johnny more than he could say, but he owed his family the truth. "At the beginning of this year, after being away for a couple of months, I went back, trying one more time even though I knew it was hopeless. That's when she shot at me." Johnny patted his hip, where his gun belt lay, and looked up to make sure that Murdoch understood. "I didn't know which way to go, so I came back here."

"I'm glad you came here, Johnny," Murdoch said. He shuddered inwardly to think of how different things might have been if his younger son, when hurting, had not come home. Johnny could have had the bullet fragments removed in some faraway place and then lost the use of his legs. He would have been all alone somewhere, suffering among strangers. And the proud, hopelessly stubborn young man never would have told them about it. Murdoch knew that for sure.

But for Johnny to conceal all of this trouble with Natalie from his own family - it was hard to take it all in. Murdoch had thought, right from the start, that the girl was flighty. What else could you expect from the daughter of Warburton? Murdoch swallowed his angry feelings and said evenly, "You always have a home here, and you remember that, son."

Johnny nodded his appreciation, but he caught a glimpse of Murdoch's inner thoughts in his cool gray eyes and so was not deceived by his father's calm demeanor. "I don't want you to blame Natalie. I pushed her too hard and didn't want to listen when she accused me of chasing an empty dream." He almost laughed at hearing himself defend her, after what she did. But then he remembered their first year together and the tragedy that had fallen upon them, and any fight left in him just melted away. "Maybe if. . . when we were first married, if the baby had lived. . ." Johnny bowed his head. He covered his mouth with his palm, unable to continue. There was a comforting hand on his shoulder. He didn't have to look up to know it was Scott.

Murdoch looked away and took a ragged breath; after a few minutes he recovered. "I'm so sorry for both of you, son."

"You never said anything, Johnny," Scott gently admonished. "You should have told us."

Johnny shook his head. He knew his brother was referring to the loss of the baby. "I couldn't." He whispered, "I _couldn't_, Scott. She didn't want anyone to know. After some time, I was going to tell you, but then Jenny died. I didn't want to burden you, not with everything you were going through. I think I sorta buried the memory of losing the baby, and now after four years it's almost like it happened to someone else." He looked up at Scott. "You know when it finally sank in that I'd lost any chance of reconciliation with my wife? When I knew it wouldn't work?"

Scott guessed, "That night you were in pain and took too much medication?"

"No. 'Course getting that letter from her when I was lying there crippled didn't help much. No, it was long before that. That night I killed Hal Granger, when you and I got back home? You stood there in the hallway and told me that Teresa said that I didn't belong to Lancer any more. I thought about it, but she was wrong. See, I feel right at home here at Lancer, more than anywhere else in the world. _Here_, not at the house that I built with my own hands in Frisco. I put my heart into building that place for Natalie and me, but wanting it to be a home did not make it so. Even though I don't regret leaving Lancer to build my own business, to find my own way, I know it's not where my future lies."

"Do you know where it does lie?" asked Scott, taking his seat again.

"Still working on that part of it," Johnny shook his head unhappily. "I sold the Frisco property as part of her settlement."

Murdoch asked cautiously, "Where is she now?"

Johnny said, his voice roughened by anger, "Natalie has divested herself of everything to do with me - my name, my house, my business - but not my money. She went back East, where she has friends, she says, and she's gonna make a fresh start." He let out a big breath and sagged in the chair. "Except for Santiago, all I have to my name is twenty dollars." Johnny leaned to one side and pulled a gold coin from his pants pocket. He held it up and looked at it with a crooked smile. "You gave this to me the first day we got here, remember?"

Scott chuckled and said, "Guest money." The brothers smiled at each other and Scott pointed out, "But you aren't a guest, Johnny. You're family."

Murdoch nodded. "You stay as long as you like, son."

After a quiet dinner, Johnny went out for a walk. Although he wandered over to the bunkhouse and talked to the men for a while, he really just needed some time to think. He didn't return until late, and told his father, who was doing bookkeeping, "I'm beat. Gonna turn in early."

Murdoch said good night and watched his younger son leave the room. He was concerned for Johnny, more so than usual, he realized. It bothered him quite a bit that Johnny had basically been living a lie for several years, and as a father, he thought he should have known the truth. He should have _seen_ it, even if Johnny hadn't been willing to tell him what was going on. Johnny had concealed his personal troubles from the family, just like the way he had hidden that wound on his hip – and the operation on his back.

Then, on retrospect, Murdoch admitted to himself that, as a youth, he had certainly not told his own father the entire truth on several occasions. What young man does lay himself bare, after all? Maybe it was easier if a parent didn't know some things; a father was less likely to stick his nose in where it didn't belong. But Murdoch liked to know the facts so he could understand the situation and help his children out when they were too stubborn to ask for help.

He slammed the large ledger closed, more than annoyed with himself; he had never seen the signs. Apparently even Scott had not known what was going on, which was a surprise. Johnny didn't need have broadcasted it, but some hint would have been good – that he needed support or perhaps advice, or even a shoulder to lean upon. But when did Johnny ever ask straight out for help? There had been many a time when Murdoch had found it necessary to guess or pry out information from his son.

Well, Johnny was a man now, almost thirty years of age, and every man has bumps in the road to contend with. Maybe it was right that he dealt with his problems on his own, Murdoch didn't know. He did know, however, what it was like to lose a wife, two in fact, and now both of his sons had suffered great losses that he could empathize with.

When Johnny had left Lancer along with his new bride, he had borrowed a large sum from the ranch, as seed money for his business. He had paid it back within a surprisingly short amount of time and had shown a good head for business. Murdoch wondered why Johnny appeared to be in total control of one part of his life but not in the other, but then the image of Maria came to mind.

His second wife had been Murdoch's failure. He had never had any kind of control over her, even though she had been the love of his life. Catherine had been a wonderful wife, steadfast, loving and true. But Maria, well, Maria had been mercurial and intense and he had loved her in a possessive and self-destructive way. It was destined not to work out from the moment they had met, if one believed in such things as fate.

But then, in a moment of clarity, Murdoch understood what Johnny had been trying to do, and what Johnny probably wasn't even aware of. Johnny had set out to ensure that he never repeated the mistakes of his parents. His son had been determined to make himself a happy home in which he could cherish his wife and nurture his children, just as all men set out to do when they are first married. But Johnny had more to overcome than most. As the product of a terribly unhappy marriage, having been stolen away from his home and his father as a baby, and then deprived, abused and abandoned as a child, he had taken up the gun and accepted a dangerous way of life as the norm. But once he was an adult, Johnny turned everything that was bad in his life into a lesson to be learned and avoided. He had set out to accomplish what his own father had not been able to do - to keep his marriage intact, no matter what.

Whether or not Johnny's choice of Natalie for a wife was a mistake didn't matter any more. It was done with, and apparently he was moving on. Sighing, Murdoch turned out the lamps and went up to bed, wondering how long Johnny would remain at Lancer - this time. He reluctantly laid a wager with himself, a twenty dollar gold coin, that his son would be gone within the month.

Scott always made sure that everything around the hacienda was secure before he turned in. It was quite late by the time he had completed his rounds. On his way to bed, he walked past Johnny's room and was surprised to see a light shining from underneath the door. He hesitated, not wanting to intrude even if he was hopeful that his brother might want to talk to him. But as he passed on by, Scott stepped on a creaky floorboard. He heard the squeak of bedsprings and the sound of bare feet padding across floor towards the door.

Scott halted and turned just as Johnny opened his door wide. Johnny shifted his weight, scratched his head and asked, "Want to come in?"

"Sure," Scott replied. Johnny was wearing only his long john bottoms, and when he returned to his bed, Scott could see the scars on his brother's back. There were several old, pale marks but it was the most recent one that stood out - the incision made by Sam's scalpel where he had gone seeking the bits of lead in Johnny's lower back. The scar started just above the waistband of the long johns and extended diagonally for several inches towards his spine.

Johnny glanced over his shoulder as he fell onto his bed and although he saw Scott's stare, he ignored it. "Sit on the bed," he invited, plumping up a pillow for his brother to lean against.

Scott removed his boots and sat up against the heavy wooden headboard. "Does your back bother you at all?"

"It's sort of sensitive." Johnny shrugged. "It's better than not being able to feel anything at all, I can tell you." He pushed himself back against the headboard, then winced. "Damn." He reached behind him to pull out a small book. "Twain," Johnny explained. "I'm trying to give up smoking and can't sleep, so I read."

Scott looked sideways at his brother. He didn't have the appearance of a man pining away due to the end of his marriage, but sometimes it was hard to tell what Johnny was feeling. Usually quiet meant sad, but apart from his brief show of emotion down in the great room earlier, Johnny was acting as if there had been no major changes in his life. Scott dared to ask, "Why didn't you tell us? Tell me the whole story?" He was put out that he hadn't been confided in, and it showed in his voice.

Opening the book, Johnny absently leafed through the title pages. "Did you know that Twain said that it's better to keep your mouth shut and look dumb, than to open it and look worse than dumb."

Scott looked at Johnny to see if he was serious or not. "You're too smart to believe that. After everything we've shared since you came here in the spring, I'd have thought you could confide in me."

"Oh hell, Scott. I didn't want to hide any of it from you, but I never found the right time. There's something else. . . I couldn't tell you in front of Murdoch, earlier, but my. . .Natalie. . .She married me thinking I was this gunfighter, some romantic character. Kindred spirits is what she called us. She expected someone who'd take her on adventures and be like her father. We did take some trips early on, but I wanted to settle down, start our family. I was working all hours, too."

Johnny placed the open book face down on his bare stomach and turned his head to look at Scott. There were some things he would never reveal, certainly not to his father. But Scott deserved to see more of the picture, and even if it was going to hurt a lot to actually say the words aloud, and would not be pleasant to hear, the time had come.

When Johnny spoke, his voice was low. "We had trouble right from the start. Losing the baby was real hard, and we were both hurting so bad. But if we'd had children, who's to say if they would have brought us closer together? I wanted to try for another child, but she said no. She wouldn't budge. We sorta drifted apart, but I always tried to be what she wanted me to be, in the hope it would make a difference. I made time for her, as much as I could. We made friends with other couples, went to parties, all sorts of fun things. Then, a couple of years ago, I got home to find she'd. . ." Johnny's gaze dropped, then he looked at Scott defiantly and said in a rough voice, raw with emotion, "I found out she'd been stepping out with a man, a friend of ours, someone I trusted."

Troubled, feeling his brother's deep pain, Scott waited to hear the rest. But the blue eyes turned away and Johnny didn't continue, so Scott said, "I'm sorry-."

Johnny shook his head, refusing any sympathy. Even so, he said with barely contained anger, "She cheated on me, and I forgave her. I damn well forgave her and tried to be her husband again. It was no use, but I was just too dumb to see there was no hope for us." He took a deep breath and turned back to face his brother. "I almost killed the man. Anyway, Natalie and I grew apart, and weeks became months and next thing I know, we're coming up on our fifth anniversary and I hadn't talked to my own wife for…I don't know…for weeks. That's when I confronted her and told her we were going to make it work. One last chance. I worked damned hard to build us a decent life together and I didn't want to let it all go down the drain. I told her she was gonna act like my wife and she was comin' to Lancer with me for a visit. Being. . . forceful is what got me shot." He lowered his gaze and said quietly, "I know that losing the baby so early on in our marriage was the turning point for her, and maybe we never had a chance after that. We started out all fired up for each other, but like Murdoch once said, 'today's fire is tomorrow's charcoal.'"

"But you tried, Johnny. That's important to remember. I know you. You put your heart and soul into everything you do. You did your best."

"I failed!" Johnny said the word 'failed' like it was wrenched from his mouth. He slumped down in his bed and stared at the ceiling. "We were so excited about having children. . .I remember how we couldn't wait to tell Murdoch," he said wistfully. "I never got the chance." His lower lip began to tremble and he rolled on his side, away from his brother. "Why?" he choked out in a husky tone. "I wanted that baby so much."

Scott looked at Johnny's bare back, seeing more than the scars: the puckered hole where Pardee's bullet had hit him all those years ago crossed by the incision Murdoch had made to extract it - he'd done the operation right on the kitchen table. There was the recent, raised pink line with bumps on either side made by Sam's neat stitches after the bullet fragments had been cut out, and all the other marks that told their own appalling tales of injury and pain. But the worst hurt of all bore no visible scar. It could only be seen in the shaking of Johnny's shoulders as he cried for the child he never had. . .and for all that he, and Tallie, had lost. When Scott pulled a blanket up to cover Johnny, his brother reached back to hang onto his hand.

Scott said softly, "It's all right, Johnny. You're here with us now, for as long as you need us. I'm right here. Not going anywhere." He consoled him as best he could and eventually, when Johnny finally appeared to fall asleep, Scott turned down the lamp and left for his own room.

***–***TBC one chapter left...


	19. Chapter 19

Hi readers...this is the last chapter. I have made a few edits as I wrote this a few years ago. I hope you've enjoyed this story. Thanks in advance to the guest reviewers, who I can't reply to directly. I appreciate hearing from you.

CHAPTER 19 - A PATCH OF GRASS

The longest way round is the shortest way home.  
~ Proverb

The next day, Johnny was out of the house before anyone else had even arisen. He rode Barranca, for old time's sake, and when he did return, he was less talkative than usual at the evening meal. There was nothing he wanted to say, the conversation about the ranch didn't interest him. After catching both his brother and Murdoch casting worried glances his way, Johnny excused himself. He said no thanks to a game of chess with his brother, and went to bed early. The day after, he met Scott's eyes with more ease and the cloud that been hanging over him seemed to be gradually lifting.

With each subsequent day, Johnny felt a bit more like his old self. He rode up to the north pasture with his father and listened carefully when Murdoch explained about the improvements he'd made to the stock over the past couple of years. Although Johnny's back ached a bit the next morning, he realized he'd enjoyed looking over the family ranch, and was interested in learning more about the changes that had been made in his absence.

One evening, after Johnny had been home for two weeks, and the Lancer men were sitting around the dining table after their meal, Johnny said, "I've been thinking a lot the past couple of weeks."

"We were beginning to wonder if the wrong Johnny Lancer had come home," Scott joked.

Johnny chuckled and bowed his head in acknowledgement. "I know, I've been like a bear comin' out of hibernation."

Murdoch concurred with a grunt, and although he was smiling, Johnny could see that he was on guard, as if Johnny was about to impart some bad news. He knew that look – Murdoch thought he was leaving again and was trying not to lose his temper. Johnny wanted to assure him that he wasn't going anywhere, but this wasn't the time to make such a statement. They had some things to sort out first.

Scott raised his wine glass a little. "You've had a lot on your plate, Johnny. We understand."

"That's good," Johnny continued, "because I need to ask you something. You see, I'd like to come back. Back here to live." Both Murdoch and Scott immediately said yes, of course, but Johnny still felt the need to convince them that he was sincere. "I want to. . .I _need_ to make the commitment to live and work here at Lancer. Permanently."

"Yes," Murdoch nodded. "We understand that, son."

Johnny wasn't sure that they did. "I'm never going to walk out on you."

Scott said adamantly, "You never did walk out on us, Johnny."

"All right, maybe not, but sometimes I think you expect me to up and leave if the goin' gets tough, or I if don't get my way or something." Johnny could see his brother shaking his head, but Murdoch was slow to respond. Afraid that the old man didn't entirely trust him, Johnny's heart sank.

Murdoch eyed his younger son then said with a knowing smile, "You're as loyal as they come, Johnny. I have faith in you to make the right choice."

Johnny dropped his gaze, not wanting is father to see how desperate he had been to hear those very words. "I want to prove to you that I'm going to work hard and–."

"You certainly _are_ going to work hard," Murdoch cut in with a stern look.

". . . and we'll stick together like a family," Johnny added.

Scott looked from Murdoch and back to his brother, puzzled. "But we _are_ a family, Johnny. There's never been any doubt about it. You've always been part of Lancer."

Johnny cocked his head a little to one side and suppressed a smile. "How much of a part?"

"One third, of course," was Murdoch's immediate reply.

Johnny laughed. "You know, a very long time ago, Scott asked me why I was all jammed up between four walls when I told him I wanted to be free." He looked at his brother who nodded as he remembered a conversation in a cantina.

"It seems a lifetime ago, brother."

"But," Johnny continued, "I now know why I never ran far from Lancer. These four walls contain everything I ever wanted, everything a man could ask for."

"Then, since you're so enthusiastic, Johnny, first thing in the morning you and your brother can start clearing the brush out of the ravine up near the falls," Murdoch proposed, looking happier than Johnny had seen in a long time. "It's blocking the flow of water to the lower pastures and God knows we need every drop we can get."

Johnny raised his hands and said, "Well, hold your horses, Murdoch. There's something more we need to talk about before we do anything else." Scott and Murdoch looked uneasily at him with raised eyebrows. "You see," Johnny continued, "we need to talk about making some changes around here."

"We need to make changes?" Murdoch asked, sounding a bit affronted.

Johnny said firmly, "I mean we need to delegate the way the tasks are laid out. And talk about how decisions are gonna be made, too. I have some ideas."

Murdoch opened his mouth to protest, but Scott reached out and laid a warning hand on his father's. After a moment, Murdoch waved his hand in a sweeping invitation. "You have the floor."

"I propose," Johnny said, leaning over the table eagerly, "that we divide the responsibilities between the three of us. Equal shares, equal weight."

Murdoch cut in, "What's wrong with the way we run the ranch now?"

"For one thing," Johnny retorted, "you're running it like it's a dictatorship, and I've seen enough of the old hacienda rule to know what that looks like. Everything el patrón says is the law, no matter what."

"Scott and I have been equal partners, in case you don't remember," Murdoch replied sharply.

"Then why are you always over-ruling him?" Johnny asked with his voice raised.

The older man objected, "I do not–."

Johnny turned to his brother and demanded, "Tell him, Scott. Or you want me to do it for you? You need to tell him that–"

Scott intervened, "Johnny, hang on. After you left back in the spring, Murdoch and I came to an understanding." He glanced at his father and received a nod of accord. "We now discuss our problems and work together to solve them, but we both agree there has to be one boss. Murdoch has always had the last say, right from the start."

Johnny said fervently, "But that's what I'm talking about. Just because it's been that way doesn't make it the right way." He leaned over the table and said to his father, "No disrespect, sir, but I don't think you understand that Scott needs a free rein to work on this ranch the way he sees fit." Murdoch protested but Johnny continued as if he hadn't heard him. "It's time you understand that if the three of us are going to live here – and I mean _live_, not simply exist – we have to work this out. We need to pursue our own interests as separate businesses within the ranch. Now, Murdoch. . . "

Glowering at his son's tone, Murdoch stood abruptly, his hands hitting the table hard enough to make the glassware rattle. "You're talking as if I don't know what's best for this ranch. I've been raising cattle since before you were born, young man! This is my ranch–."

Johnny brought his right hand down on the table with equal vehemence that made his plate jump. "Our ranch! _Ours_, and you haven't treated my brother and I like we're equal at anything since the day we both set foot on Lancer!" He took a breath and said more calmly, "All I want to do is make a proposal, Murdoch. And Scott and I would like you to listen to it without you chewin' our heads off."

Murdoch did not like to be talked to in such a manner, even by a son he loved dearly. But when he looked at his two boys' faces, both as firmly set as he imagined his own was, he paused. If he didn't at least hear Johnny out, he was sure his son would walk out, this time forever. He was too old to deal with the pain that would cause. Scott, his gray eyes, so direct and ever so slightly fearful, were on him. He was waiting, Murdoch realized, for him to say the wrong words, words that would send Johnny packing. And Johnny, his blue eyes alight with anticipation, appeared to be enjoying the confrontation. Murdoch sat down slowly and hid his clenched fists under the tablecloth. "I…I shouldn't have interrupted you, Johnny," he said in a tightly controlled voice.

With a nod, Johnny accepted the implicit apology. He sat back in his chair again. "All right. Just consider what would happen if we divided the running of this ranch into responsibilities that suit our skills. We'd have total control over our own portion. Let's say that Scott here takes on the land management, including the mining and timber concerns. Maybe the crops, too. I could handle the livestock, the cattle and horses, but we all work together to get them to market. And Murdoch, you would have control of the rest: the buildings, hiring and care of all the ranch hands, purchases, the book keeping. You'll hire someone like Cipriano's nephew to help out with that part. He's just finished schooling and is good with his numbers, isn't he? Maria would still be in charge of the household, but with you as overseer." Johnny stopped to take a breath and poured himself a drink of water.

Murdoch and Scott were just looking at him, faces not betraying any emotion, their eyes almost blank as they did mental calculations.

Scott was the first person to move. He rose and stood next to the table. He picked up his wine glass and lifted it in a salute in Johnny's direction. "Here, here, brother," he called out with a grin. "And I propose we accept your proposal."

Johnny smiled back, but he tensed up as he watched for Murdoch's response.

From his chair at the head of the table, Murdoch glowered at Scott. "Now wait a minute! Don't I have any say in this matter?"

"Actually, Father, what you have is a vote," Scott offered as he took his seat again. "Since Johnny is obviously in favor of this plan, and as I agree, with the reservation that we discuss the details further, that's two to one."

Murdoch started to rise from his chair, but thought better of it. He looked at his sons, mentally weighing each of their strengths and weaknesses. He rested his hands on top of the table, still clenched in fists, but very slowly his hands relaxed and his fingers extended over the white linen tablecloth. "We'll need to have a weekly discussion, a meeting just to keep abreast of each other's plans. I want to keep this all above board. No secrets, no hidden agendas. And we will vote on all major issues, and on anything we don't all agree upon. This will need a lot of planning. We can't just jump into such a huge change."

Johnny raised his glass to his father and brother, and as he did so he knew without a doubt that not only had he made the right choice in coming home to stay, but that he and his brother would find success together. "To Lancer," he said with a laugh.

"To Lancer," Murdoch and Scott agreed.

A few days later, over a drink at the cantina in Green River, Val filled Johnny in on some of the local news. "Once Junior Granger recovered from the holes you and Scott put in him, I had to release him from jail, and he went back to that pig farm of his."

Johnny looked into his beer and didn't turn a hair.

"I thought you were gonna press charges," Val grumbled.

With a slight shrug, Johnny said, "Not much call for that. Scott and I plugged him with lead, and preached him a sermon. He hasn't caused any more trouble, has he?" Val compressed his lips so Johnny added, "Didn't think so."

The sheriff made a derisive noise. "All of a sudden everyone is bein' mighty forgiving around here." He motioned towards the bartender. "Señor Tortuga over there told Junior he'd take a side of hog to cover the damages. And without you or your brother's say-so, I couldn't do more than fine him for disturbin' the peace."

Johnny grinned. "If you were able to collect a fine from Scott and me every time we disturbed the peace hereabouts, you'd be a rich man, Valdimar."

Val scowled at the use of his given name. "Shush," he said in an undertone. He looked over his shoulder to make sure nobody had heard, then said, "I'll tell you something else that'll tickle your ribs, Johnny. About a month after your little shoot-em-up with Junior Granger, he paid me a visit up at the house."

Johnny's head came up at that, instantly alert. "He what?"

Raising his hands, Val said, "Now, don't get in a pucker. He wasn't out for blood or nothin'."

Johnny sent an uncertain glance Val's way. He'd been confident that Junior Granger had grasped the point of their conversation. "He'd better not be causin' trouble," Johnny said with a growl.

"No, no, not at all," Val said. "It turns out that our boy Junior came over to tell me he was aimin' to do the right thing. He took his time about gettin' it out, but after fidgeting about as much as a dog with fleas, he said he wanted to apply for the position of my deputy." The sheriff smiled at Johnny's look of amazement. "I tell ya, I was bowled over. I don't know what you and your brother said or did to him when you had him to yourselves, but it must have kicked some sense into that lug head of his."

"You didn't…? Please tell me you didn't consider him for a job, Val!"

"Well, deputies of any kind are real hard to find around here, Johnny," Val explained. "Besides, he's under my wing and he's been toein' the line. He's had his nose to the grindstone. Works real hard. Enjoys his job. Plus being so big is a good thing in a deputy."

Johnny shook his head and threw up his hands. "Don't, _don't_ tell me any more."

"Well there is more, but if you don't want to hear it. . ."

Johnny drank the rest of his beer and then slammed the glass down on the counter. "All right, all right. Spit it out then."

After taking a deep breath, Val said, "You might have heard that a few months before you killed old Hal Granger, his wife ran out on him." Johnny nodded. "When she left with her little girl," Val continued, "Hal's mean streak really came out. Now, I know that Junior is a real big boy, but Hal was always heavy-handed. He beat on his son real bad from what I've been hearin'. Once his father was dead and gone, Junior became sorta. . . human again. I'm telling you this because I think he deserves another chance, and you of all people know how much influence a family has on a man. You were just lucky with the draw, Johnny, and Junior plum wasn't."

Johnny nodded. He did indeed know he was lucky that his family was so fine. They were loving and loyal and supportive and he'd die for any one of them. He had always returned to Lancer because it was the place where he'd been born and he was drawn to it, but it would be nothing more than a patch of grass to him if his family had not been there to welcome him back. "I know I'm blessed, Val. I know."

"Junior said his mother used to help folks out and he just wanted to be like her. I know there is some good in him." Val said convincingly.

Fiddling with his empty beer glass, Johnny tried to picture the woman who had run out on her husband and son. He wasn't sure that he remembered her. "They lived out in that rundown place at the end of Portrero Road?"

"Yup. Mrs. Granger was a real nice lady. She often took baked goods and the like to sick folks. Don't know how she put up with Hal all those years. Can't blame her for lighting out and taking the poor defenseless kid with her. The little girl, she was a cute one."

"How old was the little girl?" The image of his own mother running off with him when he was barely two, came to mind.

"Maybe ten or so." Val stood up and took a deep breath. "Look, I've gotta go, but see you for Sunday dinner, right?" The sheriff had only taken a few steps towards the door when he turned on his heel. "You know, I seem to recall Mrs. Granger was real friendly with Jenny. I saw them walking together a couple of times, once along the river up near Lancer." He shrugged and went on his way.

Once Val had left, Johnny turned back to the bar and ordered tequila. It was only when he had taken a bite out of a lemon and had thrown back his second glassful that Val's words about Mrs. Granger struck him. She helped out sick folks. _She'd known Jenny_. She had a little girl of ten.

Johnny's mind shot over everything that Scott had said, about the midwife, the woman he'd scared off at the last Founder's Day picnic, and the little girl who had liked Mrs. Lancer so much and told Scott she was sorry that she had died. Dios, it must have been her! Mrs. Granger – she was scared of Scott, of him knowing that her potion had killed his wife and unborn child. It wasn't just that she run out on her husband, she had run because of what she had done to Jenny.

Johnny stayed at the bar, drinking his tequila slowly and methodically. He kept his head down to conceal his dark expression and nobody dared to bother him. After some time he decided there was no point in disclosing what he had learned, not to Val or anyone else. Scott and Dr. Jenkins probably knew the identity of the midwife, and now it was all in the past.

But Johnny wondered if Scott had gone into the Moralto Hotel alongside him and Val, gun drawn, knowing that Hal Granger's wife had killed Jenny and the baby, even if inadvertently. Had revenge been on Scott's mind? Had he shot at Junior in the cantina, not only to help Johnny, but to hurt the only remaining member of the Granger family still around? Almost as soon as the thought flitted across Johnny's mind, he dismissed it. No, it was impossible. His brother wasn't that kind of man. He'd never act out of revenge, not even revenge for his wife's death.

Johnny still felt that Junior Granger was a poor choice for a deputy, and that the big young man would probably end up back on his family's rundown farm once he realized that doing good for folks was harder than he expected. On the other hand, Junior had survived a childhood with a dreadful, brutal man for a father and had come out of it intact. Time would tell.

Johnny and Scott climbed the hill overlooking the hacienda and lay down in the shade under the spreading arms of an ancient oak tree. Their occasional comments were casual and no more than a way of passing the time of day, until Scott asked cautiously, "I've been meaning to ask you. . ."

The hesitant tone in his brother's voice put Johnny on edge but he turned his head to view Scott through the long, dry grass. "Mm?"

"Whatever happened to all your fine city clothes, Johnny?"

With a chuckle, Johnny fingered the buttons on the red shirt he was wearing. "'Fraid I burned all my suits and even my big black Stetson. Had a great big bonfire out in my back yard in Frisco. I got in a foul temper and tossed some of Natalie's stuff into the heap, too, and almost burned down the outhouse. Lucky for me, it started to rain or San Francisco would have had another Great Fire." Johnny absently ran the edge of his finger across his upper lip.

Scott eyed his brother's face. Johnny looked younger without any facial hair, and the creases near his eyes suggested character rather than age. "And what happened to your mustache?"

That elicited a big laugh. "Just shaved it off. Same day. Sorta like I was cleansing myself, I guess. I shoulda tossed it on the bonfire, too." He was silent for a while, then said, "I grew it on a whim but only kept it because Natalie hated it so much." He sighed. "The things we do in the name of love." Or out of hate, he thought.

"Do you still love her?" Scott dared to ask.

Johnny shrugged and the tall grass moved when he shifted his hips. "I loved the girl I married, sure. But the woman who lived in my house. . .she was someone else. I thought it was all my fault. That I changed her somehow."

"No, Johnny," Scott protested.

"Changing your ways is not an easy thing to do, you know, but I tried to become the kind of man I thought I was supposed to be. My wife ended up with a husband nothing like the one she thought she'd married. I guess we both lost something in the bargain."

"You changed _for_ her, because you loved her."

"I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do, but it seems like the harder I tried, the less I fit in. I got so I almost didn't recognize myself."

"But you can't force that kind of change, Johnny. You are who you are. I blame Natalie for her actions, and for not believing in you, Johnny." Scott would never understand what had driven Natalie to commit adultery. Johnny might forgive her, or perhaps not blame her, but he never would. He asked angrily, "She didn't know you at all, did she?"

"Aw, no. Don't say that. We both made mistakes, and I don't know if we had it all to do all over again if we'd be able to change anything. Seems like we're destined to go down certain roads, and would most likely repeat our same actions." Johnny smiled crookedly. "I'm fine, Scott. You see, my road always leads back here, to where I was born." He picked up a piece of grass and chewed on it. "Let's not talk about this any more, okay?"

Scott nodded. "Well then, Johnny, what do you want for your birthday? This is the big one coming up tomorrow - thirty years of age."

Johnny stretched and watched the clouds go by. "What do I want? Nothing," he replied. "I have family and friends that truly care for me, a fine ranch to live upon, plenty of work to do, two fine horses who love me, a twenty dollar coin in my pocket and a patch of grass to lie back on. I've got everything. No, I want for nothing. I have it all, brother." Except women, Johnny thought with a chuckle. Maybe someday the road would lead to the love of a good woman, and a family, but hell, he had plenty of time.

***–***The end***–***

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older  
the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated  
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment  
Isolated, with no before and after,  
But a lifetime burning in every moment  
And not the lifetime of one man only  
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.  
There is a time for the evening under starlight,  
A time for the evening under lamplight  
(The evening with the photograph album).  
Love is most nearly itself  
When here and now cease to matter.  
Old men ought to be explorers  
Here or there does not matter  
We must be still and still moving  
Into another intensity  
For a further union, a deeper communion  
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,  
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters  
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

T.S. Eliot 1940

NOTE: I'd love to get feedback - email me!


End file.
